


Through Time

by coloursflyaway



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Age Difference, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Casual Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Getting Together, Growing Old Together, Guilt, Gunshot Wounds, Hand Jobs, Harry Hart Lives, Honeymoon, Honeypot Missions, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Light Bondage, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Making Up, Marriage Proposal, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Moving In Together, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Pining, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Riding, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Torture, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 162,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3950014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/coloursflyaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chronic of Harry’s and Eggsy’s love, following them from their first meeting to the last time they set eyes on each other, through shots in the head and falling in love and finally getting their shit together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Eggsy is seven years old, and there is a man in his living room. He’s twenty-six years older than Eggsy, but that doesn’t concern him now (in fact, it won’t concern him for almost thirty years).  
What does concern him is that his mother is crying, and that she said that his dad wouldn’t come home anymore, that he doesn’t know how to make her feel better.  
He’s not quite sure yet if he’s concerned about the stranger making his mum cry more too, but then the man gets up and walks over to Eggsy, crouches down next to him. Like this, Eggsy can see that the man’s eyes are brown, just like his dad’s.

“What’s your name, young man?”, the stranger asks and Eggsy answers, because that is what good boys do, and his mother taught him how to be a good boy.  
“Hello, Eggsy.” The man’s voice is soft and gentle, warm, and his eyes still look like his dad’s, which is the reason why Eggsy hands him his snow globe when he asks for it; the man hands him a medal in return. It's pretty, and Eggsy holds it tightly, promises to take care of his mum, even if he doesn’t know how to, and watches the stranger walk out of his life for seventeen, long years.

 

Eggsy is twenty-four, and some lady at the police station tells him he’s free to go. It makes no sense, because he did steal a car, crashed it into another and then drove into a police car, but he doesn’t even ask what is happening. Sometimes, it’s better to just shut up and take whatever gifts life is offering.  
So he leaves, doesn’t look back. The sun is shining, and Eggsy takes a deep breath when he steps outside of the station, a slight spring in his step, even though he’s still half expecting someone to rush after him, telling him this was all a mistake.

And then someone says his name.  
It’s a man, leaning against the wall of the station, fifty years old, still twenty-six years older than Eggsy, dressed in a dark suit, his hair perfect. He offers Eggsy a ride, tells him it was him who got him out of the cell waiting for him, and although Eggsy isn’t sure he believes him, he still agrees. He hasn’t got much to lose anyway.

 

Eggsy is twenty-four when he watches Harry Hart, who is still twenty-six years older, take apart his stepfather’s goons like it is nothing. It’s a thing of beauty, watching Harry fight, every single movement perfectly timed and precise, more of a dance than an act of violence.  
By the time Harry sits down again, Eggsy is as scared as he is impressed, and it’s all he can do to beg Harry not to make him forget, because he wants to have this branded into his memory for all time.

 

Eggsy is still twenty-four and Harry is still fifty, and makes him an offer he cannot refuse. They’re in a room in a tailor shop, where every single item is too expensive for Eggsy, and Harry is looking at him with an intensity that almost takes his breath away.  
There is something in the other’s eyes that he hasn’t often seen, respect, but most importantly trust; trust that Eggsy is capable of this, that he won’t let him down.  
He accepts and feels dizzy the whole way to the new world Harry shows him.

 

Eggsy is twenty-four and almost drowns in what the man called Merlin calls a test. He still doesn’t regret saying yes to Harry.

 

Eggsy is twenty-four and Roxy is twenty-five and the only other candidate who Eggsy doesn’t want to punch in the nose. She’s clever and witty and beautiful, and Eggsy hates her poodle and thinks he loves her a little, because she gets shares the beer she smuggled into the building with him in some quiet corner.  
“I mean, I know that these tests would be hell, but shit, they really are”, she says between two long drinks of her beer, letting her head rest against the wall.

Eggsy nods, but adds, “It’s worth it, though, innit?”  
“Yeah.” Roxy seems to contemplate what to say next, and Eggsy understands why it’s taking her so long – they’ve had two beers each already, and Eggsy can feel his head spin a little. “’s better because you’re here, to be honest. Didn’t think I’d find friends here.”

The words make Eggsy grin; he’s never had a problem making friends, but knowing that Roxy considers him one of hers is still nice.  
“Same”, he answers, reaches out to squeeze her hand for a second.

 

Eggsy is twenty-four and Roxy is twenty-five; they both fake a migraine the next morning, and although there is almost no way they have fooled Merlin, the older man still lets them stay in bed while the others run laps.  
It’s the best morning in a long time.

 

Eggsy has just turned twenty-five and for a few months, Harry is just twenty-five years older than him.  
They’re in the medical ward of HQ, because Merlin still refuses to let Harry go home after Professor Arnold’s head exploded, but at least the older man looks like himself again, hair neatly parted and slicked back, clad in a wine red robe. It’s a relief to see him like that, not broken anymore, not vulnerable.  
“I’m sorry I cannot offer you more than this”, Harry says, and pours them both a glass of whiskey, which neither of them should drink, and smiles.

If someone had asked him before this, Eggsy would have expected to be amazed that Harry is still there, alive and breathing, but for some reason he isn’t, as if he had never really considered losing the other. And right now, looking at Harry, he almost knows why.  
Because somehow, without him noticing, Harry has become his constant, the one person he can rely on above all others. And to imagine losing Harry, no matter if like this or in any other way, is almost impossible.

He takes the drink, smiles back, and watches Harry close the small, discreet bottle and store it away, before he takes a seat in front of Eggsy, somehow still looking more like a king on his throne than anyone in a robe should have the right to.  
“Happy birthday”, he says, looks directly into Eggsy’s eyes and smiles again. For a few seconds, Eggsy feels like he is six years again and his father came back home early, a brand-new, unwrapped toy car in his hands. “To you.”

They clink glasses and it’s only when Eggsy feels the alcohol burning down his throat when he realises that he hasn’t stopped smiling yet.

 

Eggsy is twenty-five and Harry is fifty when he looks down at him, tied to the underground rails. In his chest, Eggsy’s heart is still beating so hard and fast he is sure he’ll throw up any second, but he can still see the pride in Harry’s eyes.  
It almost makes up for the seconds he spent certain he would die.

 

Eggsy is twenty-five and Harry is still fifty when he teaches Eggsy how to make martinis. They’re in Harry’s living room, Eggsy sprawled all over the sofa because he has had four and a half martinis when he should have stopped after three.  
“’s that a gentleman’s behaviour? Getting’ ya protégé drunk?”, he asks, just slightly slurring his words as he turns towards Harry, who looks as prim and proper as ever, posed carefully on his armchair. He’s smiling just a little, another martini balanced on his knee, reminding Eggsy of how he smiled at him after he had passed that last test, in that bloody tunnel.

“No”, Harry answers, still smiling, twirling his glass in his long, deadly fingers. “I do not think so. But in a situation like this, I think it should be forgiven. After all, you are almost a Kingsman now.”  
“Almost, yeah.” Eggsy cracks a smile, wonders if he can steal a sip of Harry’s martini. “Don’t think I’ll be able to beat Roxy though. She’s too good for me.”  
“We’ll see about that”, Harry answers, and sounds so certain that he is right.  
As if he knew what Eggsy wanted, Harry offers him his glass, lets Eggsy take a long sip before he steals his glass back. “But even if you are right, I am still proud of you.”

Maybe Harry is a little bit drunk, because he usually would never say these things, but Eggsy doesn’t even care, just smiles, because it’s the most beautiful thing Harry could have said to him.

 

Eggsy is still twenty-five, just seven hours older, and Harry is making breakfast when he stumbles down the stairs.  
“Mornin’”, he greets, yawns, and stretches. He never intended to stay the night, so he’s wearing a shirt that is too big for him, a pair of boxers, his hair still a mess and an imprint from the fluffy pillows in the guest room on his cheek. Eggsy has never been particularly vain, but around Harry his looks matter even less; somehow, the other man never seems to see what he is wearing, just sees Eggsy beneath all of it.

“Good morning, Eggsy”, Harry answers. He’s wearing an apron and Eggsy has matured in those past months, but not enough to suppress the chuckle now.  
“Whatcha makin’?”, he asks, sidles up next to Harry, who manages to look at him both amused and exasperated.  
“Breakfast. Did you really think martinis were the only thing one has to know when it comes to being a gentleman?”, Harry asks, flips the omelettes he is making, and Eggsy’s stomach gives a growl when he realises how hungry it is. “We’ve still got a lot to do.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-five when he throws everything away for a pug, and while he doesn’t regret his decision, he isn’t sure if he’ll be able to look Harry in the eye after this.

 

Eggsy is twenty-five when he arrives in a stolen car in front of Harry’s house, who has turned fifty-one without Eggsy knowing it.  
The other is looking down at him from his balcony, disappointment and barely concealed anger written all across his features, and although Harry usually makes him feel tall and strong and worth something, he can’t remember feeling smaller than he does right now.

His feet try to turn him around, to run away, because he isn’t sure if he can cope with having disappointed the single person who believed in him, who tried to help him, but Eggsy forces them to take step after step towards Harry’s house. Even if his heart feels frozen in his chest, even if his skin is prickling. Every breath feels like drowning.

 

Eggsy is still twenty-five when he watches Harry Hart die on screen. His heart is splintering, breaking, crumbling in his chest, leaving him numb and yet in pain, and Eggsy hardly even notices he is screaming until his ears pick up the sound.

 

Eggsy is still twenty-five when he wins a fight against a girl with machetes as feet, when he kills one of the most influential men on the planet, when saves the world, when he fucks a Swedish princess in the arse, and at first, he doesn’t think of Harry at all. He’s running on adrenaline only, high on a hundred different chemicals at once, and it’s only when he’s back in Merlin’s plane that he remembers.  
Because he has his hand half raised to his glasses, meaning to call Harry and tell him the good news, maybe brag just the slightest bit (he can imagine the smile in Harry’s voice, the pride when Eggsy proves that he can be just as good as them, if not better) but then he remembers the sound of a shot, the sudden static, and the sensation of the world crumbling all around him.

He lowers his hand, clenches it to a fist until his knuckles are white and bloodless, his fingernails digging sharply into his palm. But even the pain isn’t enough to ground him anymore, doesn’t make the dull ache in his chest fade, so Eggsy forces his muscles to relax, forces his lungs to take deep, steady breaths, his eyes to blink and his heart to continue beating.  
It is what Harry would have wanted, no matter how disappointed he was in Eggsy, he would have wanted Eggsy to keep on living and do his best.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight hours older, but still twenty-five years old, and once again, Harry is twenty-six years older than him. It’s the first thing he hears when he returns to HQ, after he has hugged his mother close, has kissed Daisy a hundred time; it’s a miracle, but Harry Hart is still alive.

For several seconds, there is nothing he can say, nothing he can do, instead he just stares at Merlin, who is still talking, explaining, and looking like he hasn’t slept for a week at least, but doesn’t hear a word the other says. He knows it can’t be just good news, because he watched Harry’s feed go dead, knows that there must be a bullet lodged in his head, that he must be in a coma at the very least; he knows that there is a chance that even if Harry woke up, he might not be the man Eggsy knew anymore, he might not even remember him, but it doesn’t matter.  
It doesn’t matter, because Harry is alive, and it is more than Eggsy could have wished for.

Merlin takes him back to the medical bay, and Eggsy wants to thank him, but can’t, because his mouth won’t work, his words have all died down, but he can see in the other man’s eyes that he knows anyway. They are kind, and still kind when Merlin lets him step through the door, closes it behind him without entering as well.  
Harry is spread out on the bed like he has seen him before, motionless and seemingly broken, white gauze covering half of his face, and it’s horrible, and yet Eggsy feels more at peace than he has in a long time.

 _I’ll sort out this mess when I get back_ , that’s what Harry had told him, and he has come back, against all possible odds, and looking at Harry now, Eggsy can’t bring himself to be scared. Because Harry has come back once, and he will come back again, Eggsy knows it.

He spends the rest of the day sitting right beside the older man, not once reaching out to hold his hand, even if he wants to.

 

Eggsy is twenty-five when he wakes up in a cold, white room, his back stiff and aching, and Harry Hart, who is fifty-one, and still alive, in a bed in front of him. He hasn’t moved an inch, but his heart is beating, his chest rises and falls, and for now, that is enough.

 

Eggsy is still twenty-five, when he kicks Dean’s arse in front of all his muppets, and he knows that Harry would be proud of him, if he could see him. That he will be proud of him, as soon as he wakes up and Eggsy tells him all about it.

 

Eggsy is twenty-five, has gotten thirty- nine days older, when he takes his first mission. Harry is twenty-six years older and hasn’t opened his eyes yet, so Eggsy hopes that the older man won’t mind him leaving.  
He hasn’t touched Harry since he first walked into this room, but now he squeezes his hand, feels warm skin and a pulse beneath his fingers.  
The warmth tingles up his arm, makes him feel safe and maybe a little dizzy.  
“You don’t move a finger while I’m gone, old man, ya hear me?”, he mutters with a smile and a heavy heart. “I’ll sort ya mess when I get back ‘ere”.

 

Eggsy is twenty-five when he comes back, bruised and scratched, but still wearing his suit, plopping down on the now-familiar chair with a sigh. Part of him expects Harry to wake up now, just because he entered the room, but it’s the part which cries during movies and used to dream of someone to save him from his life, so he pays it no attention.  
This isn’t that kind of movie.

 

Eggsy is twenty-five, and says, “I’m glad you’re still here.”  
Harry doesn’t answer, because he can’t, and Eggsy sighs deeply, lets his shoulders drop; there is just no strength left to keep them up. He is still sure that the other will wake up (there is simply no other way, there _cannot be_ another way) but it’s been so long, and he’s so tired. The others are tired too, he can see it on their faces – the bags under Merlin’s eyes, the worry written all across his mother’s face, because she doesn’t know where he spends all his time, Roxy’s sympathy – but for the first time, someone else’s pain doesn’t seem more important than his own.

It’s ridiculous, because Merlin has known Harry for decades, but it still feels as if he has more right to be in pain, because the other man might miss Harry, might mourn him (because Merlin has given up hope, Eggsy knows it, can feel it), but he doesn’t need him the way Eggsy does.  
Merlin needs Harry’s company, maybe, his advice, perhaps, but Eggsy needs _Harry_ , all of him. He needs to know that Harry is there to watch over him, to tell him when he does well and to pick him up when he fails, to smile at him whenever Eggsy enters the room and to look at him like Eggsy is worth the world.

Before he knows it, Eggsy is up again, hovering awkwardly between Harry’s bed and his chair (when did it become his?) for a moment. He shouldn’t, because he has no right to that kind of intimacy, and yet Eggsy crawls onto the bed; not under the covers, not even touching Harry, just close enough he can feel the other’s warmth. Can hear his breath, even if it’s almost drowned out by the bleeping of the heart monitor.  
“I’m glad that you’re still here”, he repeats, gently puts his hand between the two of them, Harry vulnerable on his back, Eggsy curled on his side, his eyes slowly drifting closed.

 

Eggsy is twenty-five and Harry is still fifty-one, when he steps out of a plane and Merlin is waiting for him, dark rings under bright eyes.  
“You will hate me for this”, the older man announces, and Eggsy is excited and scared and hopeful, all at once, his heart picking up its pace until he can’t tell one beat from the next. “He woke up three days ago.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-five and the hardest thing he ever had to do was not to barge into Harry’s room, but to knock and wait for the softly uttered, “Come in.”  
It's the first time he has heard Harry’s voice in months, and although it’s still a little bit hoarse, it still sounds like it used to.

His hand is steady, just like it is when holding a gun when Eggsy pushes the door open, sees Harry propped up on some pillows, a book on his lap. Half of his head is still covered in gauze, his skin still pale, but his eye is open, warm and surprised when it settles on Eggsy, and it’s all he ever needed.  
“Hi”, he greets, and although his hands are steady, Eggsy’s voice is wavering, cracking at the edges, because he can hardly breathe in enough to speak the word out-loud; his heart seems to take up the whole of his chest, expanding and swelling with every breath he sees Harry take.

“Hello, Eggsy”, Harry answers, and there is a warm smile spreading across his face, and Eggsy has to clench his hands into fists to ground him, keep him from running over to the older man and hugging him tightly.  
“Fancy seeing you ‘ere”, he says instead, tries to keep his voice light and fails miserably.

“Really, now?”, Harry asks, amused and yet decidedly unimpressed by the cheesy line, and Eggsy is so deliriously happy he could scream.  
“Yeah”, he answers, “Really.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-five, but just for three hours longer, and Harry says, “It appears that your birthdays and my hospitalisations go hand in hand. I’m sorry for that.”  
He’s wearing the same red robe as he did a year ago, but this time, Eggsy is sitting on the foot of the hospital bed, a carton of Indian take out balanced on his lap.  
“’s alright”, he answers around a bite of chicken, grinning when Harry winces at his manners. Usually, he knows that the older man would scold him, but it’s his birthday (or almost is, who cares), so he agreed to give Eggsy a day off his training. “Which doesn’t mean you should try an’ get yourself ‘urt next year, mind you.”

“I won’t”, Harry replies, although they both know that it is a promise he might not be able to keep. “And I’ll make this disaster of a birthday party up next year.”  
“Deal”, Eggsy says, resists the temptation to make Harry bump fists with him.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six, and Harry is looking at him like he’s barely even five.  
“But why?”, he asks for the third time at least, looking into the eye that Harry still has left. He misses the other one, but at the same time, it seems like such a small price to pay to have Harry still with him. “It’d be so cool. Ya’d be like one half of a Terminator. I’m sure Merlin could tweak it somehow so that it’d glow red an’ all.”

“As impressed as I am that you know at least a few movies which were filmed before your time, the answer is still no. I’m quite happy with this patch.” Harry taps the black eyepatch he is wearing lightly, and Eggsy pouts just a little.  
“Alright, old man. Your loss.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and forces Harry, who’s still fifty-one, to watch all four Terminator movies in a row with him. He still doesn’t change his mind.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and Harry is fifty-one, the sun is shining outside, and Eggsy tries his hardest not to notice that Harry is still having trouble to keep his balance, that he’s not yet the man he met more than a year ago. Recovery is a process, he knows that, but sometimes it’s just difficult to accept it.  
“Y’know, I always wanted to go to Spain”, he says, quite out of the blue, and Harry turns around to face him, curiosity written all across his handsome face.

It’s strange, because Eggsy was always good with reading people, and yet never good at reading Harry, at least before he was shot; now, it seems to become second nature to read a hundred emotions out of a single blink.

“Why Spain?”, he enquires, leans a bit more heavily on the cane he hates and yet has to use.  
“Dunno.” Eggsy shrugs, slows down his steps a little bit, but not enough for Harry to notice. “Don’t think there’s a reason for it, just seems like a nice place to be. You’ve ever been?”  
It’s a silly question, especially since Harry seems to have been everywhere at least once, but the other doesn’t seem to mind. “Yes”, he answers, “A few times. Only ever on a mission, though, so I never had the time to go sightseeing.”

“What a shame”, Eggsy replies, then adds with a smile and without thinking, “Maybe we should go together.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and Harry turns fifty-two without saying a word.

 

Eggsy is still twenty-six and Harry is exactly twice as old as him, when they let him go back home. He still has to use his cane, still has trouble remembering certain things at certain times, his hands still shake when he’s been concentrating for too long, but he’s better now, looks positively thrilled when he finally sets foot into his house again.  
Eggsy follows, suitcase in hand and a smile on his lips, watching Harry rediscover the house he loves so much once more.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six, and his house, the one he shares with Daisy and his mum, is just a few blocks away from Harry’s (“It's close to the shop”, he tells Harry; “Please”, he told Merlin months ago, “Let me stay close to him.”).  
Close enough that he can sometimes walk over to the other’s place, ring the door with a smile and a cheap bottle of wine in his hand, which Harry will always put in the fridge and forget about while he gets them something better.

Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don’t, sometimes they get so drunk that Harry gets him a pyjama and lets him stay the night; what all those nights have in common is that Eggsy comes back home with the biggest of all smiles on his lips.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and Harry is fifty-two, but right now, that doesn’t seem to matter. Right now, all that matters is the bullets flying around him, destroying walls and furniture alike, and Eggsy’s back pressed against a door, Merlin’s voice in his ear.  
“I told you this was a bad idea”, the other man says, and Eggsy grimaces as a bullet rips a hole into the wood just a few inches away from him.  
“D’you really think this is the right time t’ discuss this?”, he asks, and Merlin laughs.

“There is an air vent over to your right. It should take you right out of the building.”  
“An’ ya only tell me that _now_?”, Eggsy hisses, flinches a little when the men outside fire another round of bullets at the wall. “You prick!”  
“Language, please”, another voice adds, deep and slightly amused, one which Eggsy really didn’t expect to hear.

“Sorry, boss”, Eggsy responds, grinning a little bit, although there are still bullets cutting through the air behind him. Somehow, everything seems a little brighter when Harry is around. “I’ll come back and tell Merlin the rest in private, ‘kay?”  
“Very good”, Harry answers, and Eggsy crouches down, starts to undo the first screw of the vent. “I’ll have you know that the paperwork for a dead agent is nothing compared to a shot to the head.”  
“You’ve gotta know”, Eggsy mumbles; it’s still strange to joke about this, but Harry is getting better, they are getting better. “See you later, old man.”  
There is no answer, but somehow Eggsy still knows that Harry is watching.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and Harry is fifty-two, and Roxy shoots them a strange look when Eggsy winks at the older man across the table. Harry looks like he wishes he could roll his eyes, but he doesn’t.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six years old, and has spent the last seven minutes trying to figure out what bottle of wine to get for Harry. It’s become some sort of tradition for him to bring something Harry normally wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, and yet, Eggsy isn’t sure if bringing wine in cartons would already be insulting.

So Eggsy is trying to decide between a Merlot with an absolutely ghastly looking, violet label, a Cabernet Sauvignon with a crown cork and aforementioned red wine in a carton (labelled _Red Wine from Italy_ ), putting one of them in his basket only to pull it out again and repeat the procedure.  
It’s a bit ridiculous, but he loves the way Harry always looks at the bottle in disgust, loves how it still always makes the other smile when Eggsy cracks up.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and goes with the Cabernet Sauvignon, because he knows that Harry loves that wine and might be offended on behalf of the wine to see it treated like this.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and Harry is twice as old as him, and for the first time, he makes Eggsy feel it.  
“I will have you know that I will not tolerate behaviour like this, neither now nor in the future”, Harry says in a voice that is so angry Eggsy just knows anyone else would be screaming. But not Harry, not Harry who is always so collected and calm and superior.

Not Harry who is always right, who is right now, too, because Eggsy ripped his earpiece out in the middle of the mission, and that is unacceptable, no matter how much Merlin, how much Harry got on his nerves.  
So he doesn’t talk back, just mutters, “Sorry.”  
“I couldn’t hear you.” Harry is not letting off easy this time, and Eggsy feels impossibly small in comparison to the other man, feels his rage, his disappointment almost like a physical force. It’s like that night he hardly ever dares to think about, just worse, because this time, there is no excuse.  
“I’m sorry”, he says again, hardly manages to look at Harry.

“You better be”, Harry answers, and there is a finality in his voice that makes Eggsy want to curl in on himself, leave and never come back. “If not, I’ll make sure you are _really_ sorry next time, believe me.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and gets sloshed in a pub with his mates that night, tries to forget about a now-cold brown eye and a disappointed glare.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and Harry is fifty-two, two weeks older, when he smiles at Eggsy at a meeting again, and for a second, everything is alright in the world.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and he saves three different countries in a month, gets shot a few times and shags two girls and a bloke in two nights. It’s a job he never dreamt of ever having, and it’s more than he ever thought he’d have, but he still looks forward to coming home after each mission, to Daisy and his mum and JB, to Roxy and Merlin and Harry.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and Merlin takes him to his new office for the first time, smiles when Eggsy can’t contain his grin, and gives him a picture of him with all the other recruits as a kind of housewarming gift.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and Harry, who is still twice as old as he is, produces a bottle from a cupboard that Eggsy never saw him open before.  
They’ve already gone through two bottles before this one, and Eggsy can feel his head swimming, eyes trying to catch up every time he moves; when Harry sits back down, bottle in one hand, the opener in the other, it takes a few moments until he’s in focus again.

“I cannot believe that I am doing this”, Harry says, sounding far too collected and yet not sober anymore. He opens the bottle, and it takes a few moments until Eggsy realises what is strange about it: There is no plopping sound of the bottle opening, just the sharp clang of metal against glass.  
Eggsy looks closer, and it takes some time until he recognises the cheap, green label and the cursive font.  
“Is ‘at- did ya-“, he starts, but doesn’t quite know how to finish the sentence. “You kept ‘em?”

“Of course I did”, Harry answers, pours them both a glass of what is probably going to be the most disgusting Cabernet Sauvignon that either of them has ever tasted. “They were gifts. I wouldn’t throw them away, no matter how much they lack in quality.”  
A smile blossoms on Eggsy’s lips, curls them upwards and grows brighter, wider, by the second, and yet never manages to convey just how warm he feels inside, how giddy.

Harry picks up his glass, only hesitating, and they clink their glasses together, just like they always do. But Eggsy waits, doesn’t take a sip in favour of watching the older man do so, Harry’s face scrunching up in disgust for only a second.  
“Oh good Lord, that is vile”, he proclaims, looks up at Eggsy with something like horror in his eyes. “Where ever did you get this?”

Eggsy is on the verge of saying _Tesco’s, where d’you get ya wine?_ when a single thought cuts through the fog of alcohol and amusement and exhaustion.

Eggsy is twenty-six when he realises that he’s in love with Harry.

 

Eggsy is still twenty-six, only a few, short hours older, and wakes up in a bed that is not his own, but still familiar, dressed in someone else’s pyjamas, and nothing has changed. The world hasn’t stopped spinning just because he’s in love, the sun is still shining through the gap between the tastefully coloured curtains, his head still hurts and his mouth feels parched, although he’s in love.

Not even Eggsy himself feels different, doesn’t feel his heart breaking or his fingers longing to touch; he hasn’t changed, and Harry hasn’t changed either.  
And after all, it isn’t this kind of movie; instead of breaking out in tears over the man he’ll never have, Eggsy gets up and pads downstairs on naked feet, finds Harry in the kitchen, a smile on his lips and breakfast ready on the table.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and Merlin sends him to Mozambique for his next mission. It’s hot and it’s lovely when the sun is just rising and Eggsy kills fourteen men on his first day.  
When he gets back, he’s got a bit of a sunburn around his nose and a cheesy fridge magnet each for Roxy and his mum, a coffee cup for Merlin and a bottle of a rum called Tipo Tinto for Harry in his bag.

 

Eggsy is twenty-six and his mum hugs him tightly when he gets back, pets his head.  
“Ya didn’t even say you’d be comin’ ‘ome tonight””, she mutters into his hair, and Eggsy doesn’t even know if she is right; he’s too tired.  
So he mutters, “Sorry, totally forgot. Brought ya somethin’ though.”

She pulls back, smiles at him with bright blue eyes, the way she hardly ever smiled when Dean was just around, and Eggsy feels his heart overflow with affection. One thing he is still so grateful for every day is that he could give his mum this, a home for them, safety, a place where she can smile like this.  
For a few seconds, he just looks at his mother, tries to commit this moment to memory, then reaches into his bag and gets the fridge magnet, the outline of Mozambique in green, yellow, red and black.

“’s not much, but I thought you’d like it”, he says, hands Michelle the magnet, who looks at it with her smile still on her lips. It’s not the first magnet he has brought her, not even the fourth one; a few months ago, he has started bringing magnets from every city he visits, so there is hardly any space left on their fridge. “Mozambique.”  
“’fanks”, his mum says, turns the magnet around once, twice. “Mozambique. Ya need to take me an’ Daisy one day. Or to that island ya sent the postcard from the other day.”  
“Barbados?”, Eggsy asks, can’t help but smile, because he knows that his mother fell a bit in love with the pictures he sent her, the postcard and the fridge magnet. “Promise.”

 

Eggsy is turns twenty-seven in Barbados, after another three missions, sipping cocktails with his mum on an endless, white beach. Daisy plays in the sand in front of them, and Harry sends a text when he’s about to go to bed.  
It’s short, well-worded, and makes Eggsy’s heart ache a little bit, because although he’s too busy noticing most of the day, he misses the older man, his smile and his voice and the way Harry looks at him, proud and fond.

_Happy Birthday, Eggsy. I hope you and your family are well, and that next year, we will get to have that dinner I promised you._

It’s something Eggsy has already half forgotten about, that dinner that Harry told him about twice in two different hospitals, and the thought makes Eggsy ache a little more. He would have liked that, a posh dinner with the man he is still unchangingly in love with, would have liked Harry’s eyes on him, would have liked to see his smile.  
But what is done, is done, so Eggsy doesn’t dwell on it, instead decides to send Harry a postcard the next day. And to finally have that dinner with Harry the next year.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven when he comes back home, and the first two nights are spent in three different pubs, the first one with his mates, getting so pissed that he almost throws up the next morning, the next with Roxy. He gets drunk with her too, so drunk that they have to cling to each other when they stumble to find a taxi.

“We should do this more often”, Roxy slurs, and Eggsy finds himself giggling for no good reason.  
“Yeah… I mean it’ll kill me but it’ll be so worth it”, he answers and Roxy grins at him with wide, unfocussed eyes. She’s paid for almost all the drinks – a late birthday present, she had called it, although she had already given him the most ridiculous bed spreads, navy with a myriad of pugs printed on them – and Eggsy just really doesn’t want to be near her when she looks at her bank account the next time.  
“We all have to die one day”, Roxy says confidently, almost falls over her own feet.  
“Too true, Rox, too true.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and his mum asks, “By the way, babe, what was in that present?”  
“What present?”  
“Y’know, that tiny lil box, I put it on ya desk? Came with the mail when we was in Barbados.”  
There is no box Eggsy knows of, and he has gotten all the presents he ever expected (and more) for his birthday, but his heart still beats a little too fast when he climbs the stairs to his bedroom. And his mum is right, there is a box sitting on his desk, one which he must have missed between coming home and going out and trying to sleep off his hand-overs.  
It’s made from dark, polished wood, no card attached to it, as if Eggsy should just know who it is from by the look of it. And he does.

His heart might hurt just a little with every beat, his fingers might be a bit clumsier than they usually are when he opens the box, finds a pair of cufflinks inside. A small blue gem, encased in silver, they’re elegant without being flashy, and Eggsy knows which suit Harry must have been thinking about when he bought them.  
And inside, there is the note he has been searching for, reading _A birthday is not the same without presents. Let’s catch up when you get back. Harry_

He has seen Harry around the last few days, never longer than a few minutes, just enough to exchange a couple of words and smiles, and yet Eggsy wonders what the other must have thought of him, and that he did not mention the present at all.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and comes back down to his mum, says, “Cufflinks. What else would ya expect from a tailor?”  
He cracks a smile, but his mum is his mum, and sees right through him. She doesn’t say a word.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry is fifty-two when Eggsy stands in front of his door with another bottle of wine, which cost only three pounds and will most likely taste like that, too.  
“’Lo”, he greets, holds out the bottle and smiles, still feels oh so guilty about not coming by earlier, not knowing that he was wanted. “I got ya present today. And a card which said that ya wanted t’ catch up. So, you up for really bad wine an’ a trillion pics of Barbados?”

Harry looks surprised, but smiles, a hand on the door still. “Good evening. I was afraid your present had gotten lost in the post.”  
“Nah, but my mum’s just as bad”, Eggsy answers, grins and takes a step forward, tilts his head. Usually, Harry would have asked him to come inside three times by now. “Now, what about wine and story time?”

“About that…” Everything on Harry’s face tells the whole story, so Eggsy knows it before Harry even says a word. He still listens to it, his heart aching in his chest, because although it’s most likely just bad timing it feels like rejection. “I’d love to, but I’m too busy right now, I am afraid. Paperwork, and I need to brief both Lancelot and Bors when they get back tomorrow. But I am sure that we could find another time if you wanted to.”  
It’s better than nothing, Eggsy supposes, ignores his falling heart and how heavy the bottle of wine has gotten in his hands, gives Harry his best smile. “Yeah, yeah, that’d be great.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and gets drunk on cheap wine in his room, trying not to feel too pathetic.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry sends him on a mission in Brazil, another country he’s never been to and never thought he would see before this, before Kingsman, before Harry, and yet, he isn’t too excited. Because he hasn’t seen the older man outside of HQ for more than two weeks, and he misses him.  
They haven’t even had the drinks Harry promised just after his birthday, and for the first time since Eggsy has realised that his feelings for Harry surpass gratitude and respect and admiration easily, it hurts.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and there is a beautiful Brazilian girl spread out on his sheets. Her name is Vitória and she is the heiress to a hotel emporium, clever, funny and beckoning him over.  
Also, her uncle is planning to overthrow the government.

“C’mon, pretty boy”, she purrs, spreads her long, long legs, and Eggsy knows that he shouldn’t, but it’s been so long since he lost himself in someone else’s touch; there is no way to resist.  
So he doesn’t, instead crawls between her legs and kisses her, first her mouth, then her neck, then her slick cunt, licking between her folds, from her opening to her clit.

She makes a soft, sweet sound, and Eggsy grins, seals his mouth over her clit and sucks. Another sound, deeper this time, louder, and Vitória’s hips cant up invitingly, her legs spread wider to give Eggsy better access; he uses it and slides two fingers into her.  
Inside, she’s slick and wet, and Eggsy still doesn’t fuck her with his fingers, just rubs the tips of them over Vitória’s insides in small circles. He pulls back, even if she whines, replaces his mouth with his thumb, so he can look at her.

Like this, Vitória looks even more beautiful, eyes slightly unfocussed, breathing heavily. Without thinking, Eggsy leans down and kisses the inside of her thigh.  
“You’re gorgeous”, he mutters against tan skin, and she chuckles, rolls her hips into his touch.  
“Thanks, pretty boy”, Vitória replies, her voice breathless and amused, one hand reaching out to dig perfectly manicured nails into Eggsy’s shoulder. “But how about you put that mouth of yours to better work again?”

Eggsy smirks, doesn’t answer, instead slides his thumb down just enough so it rests directly beneath Vitória’s clit, continues rubbing that sensitive spot and leans down again, circles her clit with his tongue, presses down gently. The hand on his shoulder tightens its grip, surely leaving marks on his skin, and Eggsy loves it, sucks and licks until Vitória’s soft noises have turned into loud moans.

He’s still twenty-seven when he fucks her, slow and deep until they are both gasping for breath, clutching to each other, and he’s still twenty-seven when he rolls out of Vitória’s bed the next morning.  
“When you get back to Brazil, give me a call, pretty boy”, she says while he gets dressed, gives Eggsy a sleepy smile.  
“Will do, love”, he answers, and knows in that instant that he won’t. In another life, before Harry, without Harry, he would have, because she is gorgeous and funny and clever and might just have given him the best blowjob of his life between round two and three. But in this world, in this life, with Harry somewhere in London and Eggsy’s heart still with him, he won’t call her.  
He thinks she knows.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven when he comes back to London, Vitória’s uncle in prison and his mission accomplished. Merlin claps him on the shoulder and tells him he did well, Roxy asks after that Brazilian bird he texted her about, and Harry is nowhere to be seen.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry is fifty-two; it’s the second time that Eggsy is standing in front of the other’s door without having called, another bottle of wine in his hand and a heart beating too fast, too loud.  
It takes longer than usual until Harry opens, looking impossibly tired, as if he hadn’t slept for a week. He’s still the most handsome man Eggsy has ever set eyes on.

“Eggsy”, the older man says instead of a greeting, and it might not be true, but Eggsy thinks that his eye gets a little brighter when it settles on Eggsy, the black of the eyepatch a stark contrast to the warm brown of his eye.  
“Hiya”, Eggsy answers, smiles and holds up the bottle in his hand. “Thought I’d force ya to make good on that promise with the wine and the stories an’ all. Any time?”

For a moment, Harry seems to be unsure what to say (and Eggsy’s heart clenches and falls and threatens to shatter) but then he smiles, steps aside.  
“Of course”, he says, and Eggsy breathes freely again, smiles more easily the next time. “Come in.”

(They get drunk on expensive whiskey until Eggsy demands to open another bottle of disgustingly cheap wine, just to see Harry’s face when he takes the first sip.)

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and wakes up in Harry’s guestroom. It feels like coming home.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Merlin gets him a pocketknife which shoots laser beams. He takes it with him on the next mission, cuts a hole into two-inch steal and gets home two days earlier than expected.  
Harry looks at him with pride in his eyes and Eggsy feels like he is floating.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and although he doesn’t know it, Harry turns fifty-three.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and up until now, last minute love confessions have never made any sense to him. Why would anyone soil the memory someone had of them by talking about a love they didn’t reciprocate?  
And yet, right now, when there is a bullet lodged in thigh, another one in his upper arm, when there are still people shooting, he suddenly gets it. Not because he expects to hear the words back, just because he wants Harry to know how much he meant, means to him.  
“Merlin?”, he all but shouts, so the other will be able to hear him over the shots fired. “If I- tell me mum and Daisy that I love ‘em, okay? And tell Harry-“

“Shut up, Eggsy.” It’s a voice he didn’t think he’d ever hear again, and although Eggsy is still getting shot at, he feels his thoughts centring, the pain in his shoulder and thigh seeming less overwhelming.  
“This is not the time for last words”, Harry says almost roughly. “Merlin has called for backup, they should be there in five minutes later. Don’t you dare die until then, understood, Galahad?”

There are still two bullets embedded in his flesh, he’s in pain and he’s tired, but Eggsy still sits up a bit straighter, groaning in pain, and says, “Yes, Arthur. Understood.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry is fifty-three; when he steps out of the plane, he hopes that Harry will hug him, because he just almost died and his thigh and arm are still throbbing with every heartbeat.  
He doesn’t, but he looks at Eggsy with enough relief and pride in his eyes that it doesn’t seem to matter too much.  
“Galahad”, he says, and Eggsy smiles through pain and painkillers and an aching heart, “Good to have you back.”

“Good to be back, Arthur”, Eggsy answers, only looks away when Roxy all but tackles him, calls him an idiot and worse.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry, who is still twenty-six years older than him, still fifty-three, stands in front of his door when Eggsy had actually being expecting the delivery guy with their Thai food.  
It’s Daisy’s birthday, her fifth one, and yet Harry is standing outside his door, dressed impeccably, the black eyepatch fixed snugly over his handsome face. For a moment or two Eggsy doesn’t know what to say.  
“Uh… hi?”, he finally tries, gives Harry a small smile. “What are ya doin’ ‘ere?”

“I just wanted to drop this off.” Harry holds out a small box, wrapped in pink paper and adorned with a white bow. “Tell your mother and sister my best wishes.”  
“’s that for Daisy?”, Eggsy asks, takes the box nonetheless. It’s light, and Eggsy can’t help but wonder if Harry wrapped it himself, or if he let someone at the shop do it. “You shouldn’t ‘ave…”  
“I wanted to.”

Harry’s voice doesn’t leave any room for disagreement, so Eggsy doesn’t even try, just smiles and curls his fingers a little tighter around the box. “Thanks. You wanna come in? We’re getting Thai and Daisy is probably gonna make us watch The Little Mermaid again.”  
It’s absolutely disgusting how much Eggsy wants, craves, needs Harry to say yes, how disappointed he is when the other shakes his head.  
“I wouldn’t want to intrude. But thank you, Eggsy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow. G’night!”  
Eggsy smiles and watches Harry turn around and leave, wishes he would have stayed at least a little longer.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Merlin slaps him on the shoulder after a mission with Gawain, which went spectacularly well.  
“Sit down, lad”, the older man says, and Eggsy complies, not sure what to expect, praise or punishment. Although Merlin isn’t an agent, he still has one of the best poker faces of all of them.  
“What’s up?”, Eggsy asks, watches Merlin sit down and pull a bottle from one of his drawers, label less and already half empty.

“The best whiskey in the world”, Merlin explains instead of answering. “Nothing of the shite you get at a supermarket, _this_ is true craftsmanship.”  
He fills up two glasses, holds out one for Eggsy to take, who doesn’t quite know what he did to deserve it.  
“Uh…. Thanks? But ya do know that I have like, no taste. So ya precious whiskey is gonna be wasted on me taste buds.”  
It’s a fair warning, in Eggsy’s opinion, but Merlin just shrugs, takes a drink of his own glass. “That’s alright, even if you don’t notice a difference. My brother owns the distillery.”

Eggsy laughs, takes a sip and… notices a difference. The taste is smooth, rich and intense without being overpowering, tasting of more than just alcohol and turf.  
“Oh wow”, he breathes out once he has swallowed, and Merlin chuckles.  
“Not wasted after all, I see?”  
“Nah. Compliments t’ ya brother, seriously. This shit’s good.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything, just nods, and that’s okay. Because maybe this is what he has been looking for the whole time, at least within Kingsman; easy companionship, shared respect. An afternoon spent in silence and with the best whiskey in the world.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry is fifty-three, looks at him surprised when Eggsy asks, “Ya can’t ‘ave been like this forever right?”  
“How?”  
“Ya know.” Eggsy gestures vaguely, looks at the older man from across the desk. “This posh. An’ cultured an’ shit. Drinking good wine and reading books in Italian and listenin’ to opera.”  
Harry doesn’t answer, just laughs.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and this bloke who he probably has seen before, but cannot really remember, is getting them all another round of drinks. He’s been back for more than a week, and it feels heavenly to just spend a night with his mates, not having to worry about killing or being killed.  
“So, that bird you was with last time I saw ya”, Rob starts, downs the last bit of his beer. He’s already on the best way on getting really drunk, but they all are, so Eggsy doesn’t really mind.  
“Rox, ya mean?”, he asks, knowing in which direction this is going to go; if one of the others turned up with a girl like that, he’d be making the same assumptions. “She’s a mate. Bloody good one too.”

“A mate? So that means ya would’ve no problems introducing me to ‘er?” Rob is grinning, and Eggsy just shrugs.  
“Sure thing, mate, but I’m gonna warn ya, I don’t think you’re ‘er type.”  
Roxy once told him that she could find out if she was interested in a guy with one look at his wrist alone. If he was wearing a watch, he needed to know the time, which meant he had something important to do; if the watch was too flashy, it was just to show off and useless to her.  
Rob doesn’t even own a watch.  
“Sweet”, Rob still says, grins and winks at Eggsy, who lets him believe he will end up sleeping with Roxy for a little longer.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and holds his promise, takes Roxy with him to the pub a week later. She smiles and drinks with them, and shoots Rob a single gaze which makes him shut up before he said a word.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry is fifty-three, and this Arthur refuses to stay in London all the time, and Eggsy is too worried about the other man getting hurt again to pay attention.  
They’re in Denmark, trying to get some intel about another psycho’s global scheme of world domination, and there are people shooting at them, which shouldn’t be a problem, because it happens all the time; but now, every shot makes Eggsy want to turn around and check if Harry’s still alive, because every shot makes him think about the glass of Harry’s feed cutting out, the blood and the feeling to just have lost someone he cared for so deeply.

Every shot makes him worry so much that he almost misses it when one of the men who are shooting at them pulls out a hand grenade and throws it at them.  
“Harry!”, he shouts when he does notice, wants to jump forward and cover the grenade with his body, like they taught him in the army, but the other man grabs his arm and hurls him around a corner.

He collides with the wall in a way that makes every joint ache, but he’s still alive and Harry is right behind him; the grenade explodes and leaves him sore and deaf, but they’re alive and that is all that matters.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry is fifty-three, and although he never wanted to, Eggsy knows he has to tell the other. About his feelings, about everything, because it’s affecting his work, it almost got both of them killed, for Heaven’s sake.  
And before Harry is his mentor, his friend, the man Eggsy is madly, hopelessly in love with, he’s his boss and he has to know about this like this.

So he buys a bottle of cheap wine – tries very much not to think about how this might be the last one he ever brings to Harry’s house – and rings the doorbell at exactly eight pm. It seems important for some reason to be on time, like doing one thing correctly could maybe cancel out the rest.  
Harry opens and looks surprised (maybe because Eggsy has had problems with his punctuality before, maybe because he looks as if his heart is about to leap out of his chest), but bids him come in.

Eggsy had hoped that it would be better once he had seen Harry, but it isn’t; if anything, it’s worse. It’s worse because Harry looks at him so fondly, because he asks him how he’s been, and although Eggsy knows that Harry would never shun him, he knows that this will change everything.  
There is simply no other way.

Without thinking, and most importantly, without asking first, like he should, Eggsy sits down, looks up at Harry while the other fetches a drinkable bottle of wine and two glasses. He tries to commit every detail to memory, the way Harry moves, the sight of him without a tie and the top button of his shirt undone, the curl that falls into his face.

“Can you- like, will you just sit down?”, Eggsy asks when the other won’t stop fussing. He’s got this whole little speech prepared in his head, but he can’t start when Harry isn’t sitting down, isn’t listening. Because even if he has gone through it over and over again, Eggsy still isn’t sure if he’ll be able to do it more than once.

“Back there, in Aarhus, I almost got us both killed. You know it, I know it too. An’ if I ‘ad paid more attention, I could’ve prevented that, but I didn’t and-“  
Harry looks like he wants to speak, lips parted and body leaning towards Eggsy, who can’t have him say a word, who can’t stop speaking now.  
“-no, jus’ let me finish, kay? Just this. So, I could’ve prevented it, but I didn’t ‘cause I was too fuckin’ distracted. By you. By worrying that you’re gonna be shot again. It’s… I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time an’ I’m not sayin’ that ‘cause I think you’ll say it back or anythin’, it’s just that you’re me boss and I can’t work with ya anymore, not without this ‘appening again, and I didn’t want ya to think that that was ‘cause I’m mad at ya or anythin’. ‘s the opposite. So yeah. I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t sound as good as it did in his head, and yet Eggsy feels like he’s light as air for a second, as if those words, kept in his mind and on his tongue, were weighing him down; Eggsy is floating because there is silence and he has said what he had to say. Right now, it’s all in Harry’s hands, how he’ll act and what he’ll say. It’s a relief far more intense than Eggsy would ever have imagined.

The silence stretches on, but it’s less tormenting than Eggsy would have thought; Harry is still looking at him, long fingers wrapped around the stem of his wine glass.  
“Thank you for telling me”, he says in the end, slowly, as if he was considering and reconsidering every word. It makes Eggsy laugh, but then again, maybe everything would, because he still feels light, still as if he was floating.  
“That’s it?”, he asks, and Harry, God bless him, Harry smiles, and all of a sudden, Eggsy knows that this is going to be alright. That they will be alright.

It brings him back to Earth, grounds him, but it’s worth it.  
“Well, what would you like to hear instead?”, Harry asks, raises his eyebrow and leans back; it’s only because Eggsy knows how to read the other by now that he can see that Harry is still unsettled by his confession. But that’s alright, that’s expected, even if it might be the one thing that makes Eggsy forget about watching his mouth.  
And so he answers, “Well, how about you confess ya undyin’ love for me?”

The world grinds to a halt around Eggsy, but Harry seems unmoved, unchanged, just looks at him, unimpressed.  
“Maybe another day, Eggsy”, he answers, and yes, they’ll be okay.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry is fifty-three; Harry cracks open the third bottle of wine, and Eggsy is just barely in his right mind to wonder if the other wants to forget about this night. But then Harry turns around, the bottle forgotten in his hand, as if he just remembered something that couldn’t wait.

“I’m proud of you”, Harry says, and Eggsy feels his heart beat in his chest, feels the blood flowing through his veins, the breath in his lungs. Merlin once told him that Harry would be proud, but he’s never heard the words from the other’s lips, and like that, they mean the world.  
“You know that, don’t you, Eggsy?”

Eggsy sits up straighter, smiles half a smile, and says, “Yeah. I guess I do.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and throws up the second he stumbles out of the taxi that he insisted he’d take, feeling worse and still better than he has in a long, long time.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry is fifty-three, and Roxy is twenty-eight, sitting on Eggsy’s couch with a bottle of beer in her hand. Sometimes he wonders when they have started to trade coffee for beer, tea for whiskey, but then he remembers that the chance that something else will kill them before their livers have even started to, is overwhelming.  
And right now, it is making talking easier, which Eggsy is glad for, because he feels like talking today, like sharing secrets.

He gets up and gets a bottle of vodka and glasses for both of them, because beer is good, but for sharing secrets, it’s not enough. Roxy raises an eyebrow when he hands her the drink, but doesn’t say a word, just clinks their glasses together and downs hers in one gulp.  
Eggsy does the same, delights in the burn of alcohol down his throat, the lingering heat.  
He pours them another.

“So, you’ve told our boss that you’ve got the hots for him?”, Roxy asks, grinning, and Eggsy grimaces, but nods.  
“Could ya not put it like that, though? I already feel enough like a teenage girl anyway.”  
“Nothing wrong with that”, Roxy comments, grins and clinks their glasses together again. “As long as you don’t draw heart and sign everything with Mr. Eggsy Hart.”  
Eggsy groans and swallows the sound together with another mouthful of vodka.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and says, “You know what is scary, though, Rox?”

They’re both drunk, just drunk enough to feel warm and fuzzy and a little bit tired, just tired enough to spill their secrets.  
“Like, it’s probably stupid or somethin’ and I guess everyone feels like that sometimes, but it’s just like ‘arry is endgame for me. Y’know? Not jus’ some crush, nothin’ that is gonna pass, it’s like there’s ‘arry and no one else. Jus’ ‘im.”  
Eggsy takes another sip of his beer, ends up spilling some down his chin and shirt; Roxy laughs at him, almost chokes on her own mouthful.

“An’ it’s just the worst”, Eggsy continues, thinking about this and speaking at the same speed. Sometimes, he has found, you realise how you feel far more easily when you say everything out loud, let the world hear it. “’Cause he doesn’t want me, an’ I… I don’t even think I’ll end up alone, y’know? I don’t think I could bear that, I’ll just… I’ll settle for someone. Someone who’s be nice and respectable and good and all, but who won’t ever be… it. That _it_ that they tell you about in books and movies, that person makes your heart stop when they look at ya. ‘Cause that’s ‘arry for me. So they’ll jus’ be there and they’ll be enough and they’ll be be’er than being alone, but I won’t love ‘em. Or at least I won’t love ‘em as much as I love ‘im. Does that make sense? Is that stupid?”

Roxy has stopped drinking while he was talking, which means a lot, but now she sits up, pours them another shot of vodka, her hand trembling just enough to spill half of it over the table.                                                                            
“Yeah. I mean, no. To be honest, I’ve no idea, Eggsy.” She looks thoughtful, her pretty face resembling one of those marble statues his mum has postcards from for one second. She’s beautiful, and Eggsy feels affection fill his heart up so completely he thinks he’ll burst any second.

“Can I tell you a secret?”, Roxy says all of a sudden, and Eggsy nods. “I don’t think I’ll ever have that. That whole love thing, that whole _it_ thing. I’ve never been in love and I don’t think I’ll ever be, I think it’ll just be this, missions and getting drunk and friends, and then, one day, I won’t make it back. Because I wasn’t good enough or because I got lazy, whatever. And you’ll miss me, and Merlin will miss me, and my parents will, but it won’t be the same. You know? Because this isn’t the same as being in love.”

She takes a deep breath, leans back, and her eyes are huge and dark in the dim light. “It’s not even scary, but it feels like I’m missing out on something important. Something I could have had.”  
Eggsy wants to say something, but there is nothing in his head, nothing that could make this better for either of them, so he gets up on unsteady legs and walks around the table, falls half on top of Roxy.

She giggles, shifts until they are next to each other and Eggsy can hug her, burying his face in Roxy’s hair that always smells like cinnamon.  
“We’re both fucked”, he mutters, and Roxy nods, her breath hot against his neck, her hands sliding around his waist. Fingernails catch on the fabric of Eggsy’s shirt, the sensation making him shiver.  
“Yeah”, Roxy breathes out, “You know what? We should make one of those pacts they always make in movies. Like, if we both don’t find the love of our lives by the time we’re thirty-five, we’ll get married. You can knock me up a couple of times and we’ll get a house and a dog and all that shit. Get drunk on Christmas parties and frighten each other’s parents to death.”

They are both drunk and Roxy is speaking almost as if she was dreaming, softly and sweetly, and maybe that is why Eggsy can see it so clearly, their living room and their children, blonde and pretty, them having nights and nights and nights like this, cuddled together and drinking. He doesn’t think that they’d ever fall in love, but maybe it would still be better than living together with someone who loves him and who he can’t love back like they’d deserve it.

So Eggsy says, “Yeah, we should. But jus’ as long as I get to name the kids.”  
Roxy hums, shifts a little in his arms. “Why’s that?”  
“Dunno. Always wanted to.”  
It’s probably not a good answer, but Eggsy doesn’t care anymore, and Roxy doesn’t seem to either, because she chuckles, nuzzles Eggsy’s shoulder. “Deal. As long as you promise not to name them after some obscure aunt or uncle.”  
“Anythin’ for ya, darlin’.”

Eggsy pulls back a little, kisses her cheek like he has done countless times before, but something is different, something has changed; when he can see her whole face, Roxy is looking back at him, her eyes still dark and her lips parted.  
She’s beautiful, and Eggsy loves her fiercely, even if never like he loves Harry.

Who leans in first, he doesn’t know, but their lips meet somewhere in the middle, tentatively, softly. Roxy tastes like vodka and beer, kisses him like she looked at him before, gently, without passion but filled with longing. Not for him, but for something.  
And Eggsy kisses back, cradles her head in his palm and tilts her head so he can lick into Roxy’s mouth, finding her tongue and coaxing it to dance with his.

He’s kissed enough people without meaning more than just the kiss itself, without hidden motives or concealed feelings, and yet it’s different, because it’s Roxy, and because he loves her, because she loves him. So Eggsy kisses her with more passion, sighs into her mouth when Roxy does the same.

And after that, everything is so easy.

They kiss and kiss, only stopping to take off their shirts, leaving them on the floor, over the armrest. Roxy’s skin is warm under his palms when Eggsy slides his hands around her waist, follows the ridges of her spine with curious fingertips; her touch is tender and yet leaves fire on his skin.  
There is no way he can know it, and yet Eggsy is certain that Roxy would kiss, would touch him differently in another situation, but this moment doesn’t permit anything but bittersweet tenderness.

So he undoes her bra, watches her eyes when Roxy shrugs it off, gives her a smile that she returns before she kisses him again. Somehow, it seems like almost the same as trading secrets.  
It feels like Roxy is telling him a story when Eggsy kisses a line down to her collarbone, cups one of her breasts in his palm and sucks on the nipple, because Roxy moans and threads her fingers into Eggsy’s hair, spelling out a whole story with her fingernails.

She shifts and turns until she is seated on Eggsy’s lap, pushing her chest up like an offering; this might be his best friend, and yet, Eggsy feels liquid heat shoot through him, his hips rocking up against Roxy slightly.  
Once again, Eggsy leans down to tease one of her nipples, turning the beginning of a chuckle into another moan; Roxy retaliates and digs perfectly manicured fingernails into his back.  
If Eggsy scrapes his teeth over her nipple, it’s by accident.

It might be punishment when Roxy rolls her hips, but it doesn’t feel like it; it feels like heaven, reminds Eggsy that he is just human and that his cock is hardening. He still bites down lightly on Roxy’s nipple, causes her to make the sweetest, most breathless sound, something between a gasp and a moan, her hips rocking forwards again.  
Eggsy brings one hand to her other breast, massages it and drags his thumb across her hardening nipple, sucks on the other one until Roxy doesn’t stop moving on his lap anymore, sends jolt after jolt of pleasure through Eggsy’s body.

Maybe it’s the sparring that is paying off, but they move together so easily, as if they had done this a hundred times before; Roxy’s hands on his back, clinging to him when Eggsy manoeuvers them to side so he is lying on top of Roxy, her lips on his throat, sucking and biting until Eggsy can feel a mark blooming there.  
Her hips lift easily when Eggsy moves down to undo her trousers, pulling them and her panties down and finding Roxy slick and waiting for him, demanding to be touched without words, but with a hand in Eggsy’s hair.

He does, slides two fingers deep inside her and only takes a moment to wonder what he is doing, what they are doing, until he decides he doesn’t care. It’s more important to listen to Roxy’s sharp intake of breath, to drag his fingertips over her inner walls when Eggsy starts to fuck her with his fingers, slowly, deeply.  
Without thinking, Eggsy leans down and laves his tongue over Roxy’s clit, tasting her. Instead of an answer, Roxy digs her fingernails sharply into his scalp, and Eggsy moans, does it again.

Roxy is easy to read, so Eggsy reads her, writes a novel about the way she rolls her hips into his touch, dreams up poems about her taste, her moans, how Roxy clenches around his fingers. An essay about her face when she declares this enough and pulls him up, kisses him and shares her taste.

Almost falling off the sofa, Eggsy pulls back and takes his trousers off, leaving them flung over the armrest after retrieving the obligatory condom from his wallet. They have been naked around each other before, have showered together, but this is different, because Roxy is lying there, breathing heavily with her legs spread and her cunt glistening with Eggsy’s saliva and her own slick, because Eggsy wears her mark on his chest, and his cock is hard, leaking precome.  
Because he can still taste Roxy on his lips and tongue.

“C’mon, then”, Roxy says, raises an eyebrow, and Eggsy shoots her a grin, gives his cock a slow, teasing stroke. The bit of friction makes him moan, draws Roxy’s eyes down to his crotch, and somehow, they are still just friends, even when Roxy rolls her hips wantonly, when Eggsy can hardly think about anything but being inside of her.  
“Wha’, ya already that desperate?”, he asks, and Roxy rolls her eyes, uses one long leg to pull him closer, between her thighs.

“I think I liked your mouth better when it was sucking on my clit”, she remarks, and Eggsy chuckles, but complies, rips the condom open and rolls it on, moves closer and leans down until he can kiss Roxy, guide his cock between her folds.  
She’s hot and silky around him, tight enough to make Eggsy groan, hide his face in her neck.

For a few moments, they just breathe together, bodies pressed together, then Eggsy pulls out a fraction, slides back into Roxy’s welcoming heat a moment later, going slow and gentle.  
“’s okay?”, he asks, and she only laughs breathlessly, lifts her hips a little, giving Eggsy permission without saying it out loud.

He’s moving before he knows it, pulls back only to thrust back into her a moment later, slowly building a rhythm that makes Roxy moan softly the back of her throat and him groan, sparks of pleasure tingling up his spine.  
Without noticing, Eggsy has missed this, being this close to someone, feeling someone’s pleasure under his own hands; this now feels even better for it.

Roxy pulls his head up and kisses Eggsy, all teeth and tongue, and Eggsy snaps his hips forward harder, making them both moan.  
“Fuck…”, Roxy breathes out; part of Eggsy wants to tease her, another part wants to hear that sound again, but in the end, Roxy makes the decision for him, wraps long legs around Eggsy’s waist and pulls him closer.  
It changes the angle, changes how they move together, and suddenly it’s Eggsy who can hardly breathe, because every thrust makes his skin feel like it was on fire.

Again, he thrusts into her, harder without wanting to, and Roxy gasps, her inner walls clenching around Eggsy and making pleasure explode in his stomach, filling him up from head to toe. She sneaks a hand between their bodies, teases fingertips over the Eggsy’s shaft, over her stretched opening, and the realisation what she is doing makes Eggsy fuck her harder still, too turned on not to.

Roxy doesn’t seem to mind, their moans mingling in between mouths when Eggsy kisses her again, her fingers speeding up against his stomach, Eggsy’s hips driving his cock into her again and again.  
They both lose themselves in the motion, the pleasure, and Eggsy barely manages to gasp out a warning before he is coming, fucking Roxy through his orgasm.  
She follows just a few moments later, moaning and milking Eggsy’s cock dry.

They fall asleep without moving more than an inch or two, naked and sticky and too drunk on alcohol and endorphins to care.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and wakes up to Roxy poking him in the chest.  
“You smell”, she comments, and Eggsy sits up slowly, blinks at the bright sunlight.  
“Are ya sure you’re one t’ judge?”, he answers, yawns around a grin that threatens to curl his lips upwards.

Roxy lifts up a strand of hair and holds it to her face, grimaces.  
“Probably not”, she admits, gets up, all graceful movements and slender limbs. She’s beautiful, still, but it’s different than it was last night. “I’m going to take a shower. Alone, just in case you were wondering.”  
With a laugh, Eggsy lets himself fall down on the sofa again, his eyes drifting shut. “Definitely not. Saw enough of you last night, thanks.”  
“Really? That’s not what you said back then though”, Roxy shoots back, and Eggsy hears her leave, soft footsteps on the wooden floor. “Ooooh, Rox, I’m gonna come, oooh….”

It’s good to know that they’re still them, Eggsy thinks, and allows himself to go back to sleep.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry is fifty-three; Roxy is twenty-eight, and they fail when they try to sneak into the meeting without raising that much attention.  
“Galahad, you’re late”, Harry says disapprovingly, then notices Roxy just behind him. “And you, Lancelot.”  
For a moment Harry’s gaze lingers on Eggsy’s throat, where Roxy left a mark, then looks away.  
“Sit down. We were just discussing Gawain’s last findings…”

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and his mother does her best not to notice the hickey on his neck. He appreciates it, and yet it would be easier if she just asked and Eggsy could disappoint her hopes, tell her that there still was no girlfriend to speak of.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry is fifty-three, sends him to Okinawa for a mission. It’s nothing special, nothing important, just meeting a contact, collecting intel, but Eggsy loves it, because it’s a different country, a different culture.  
He comes home with a bag full of souvenirs and the number of a stewardess scrawled on a napkin.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and Harry is fifty- three; he comes home from the fifth mission in a row, only to hear that Harry is waiting for him. He groans, because he wants to go home and see his mum and his sister, but he still stands up on aching legs and makes his way to Harry’s office.

It’s still different between them than it used to be, almost, but not really, tense, like they are both mapping out where the new limits lie, how far they can go. But that’s okay, or at least Eggsy tells himself it is; it was to be expected anyway.

“Before ya say anything, jus’ please let me sleep one night in me own bed, okay?”, he says when he waltzes into the room, forgetting to knock once again. “Seriously, ‘arry, it’s gettin’ ridiculous, I don’t think I ever missed me bed this much.”  
The man in front of him doesn’t say anything right away, raises an eyebrow and watches Eggsy drape himself over one of the chairs, too tired to sit up straight. His suit is going to crinkle, but that is so worth it.  
“An’ please don’t send me off to any country that’s hot again, I swear to God, this suit isn’t made for anythin’ ‘otter than twenty degrees.”

“It might come to you as a surprise, but I didn’t intend to send you off to any other mission”, Harry answers, and Eggsy looks at him, surprised and yet delighted. It’s been far too long since he spent more than two days at home, and he misses it.  
“In fact, I wanted to ask you something. Since it’s your birthday next week and since I don’t intend to send you on any mission for quite some time, I thought we could finally have that dinner I promised.”

Eggsy hasn’t forgotten about that promise, and yet it comes as a surprise that Harry would still like to keep it; having dinner, just the two of them, sounds like something so dangerously close to a date that he wouldn’t have blamed Harry if he had never spoken of it again.  
“Oh, fuck yeah”, he answers maybe a bit too quickly, sits up straighter. “Sure. What d’ya have in mind?”

Harry chuckles and Eggsy is still so tired he feels like he is just running on adrenaline and caffeine and he still loves Harry with an intensity that takes his breath away, makes his chest feel tight.  
“It’s a surprise. I will have a cab pick you up at, let’s say half past seven. Alright?”  
Harry leans back and Eggsy leans forward, smiles. “Yeah, sure. I’m guessing I’ll have t’ wear a suit, right?”  
“Absolutely.” Harry smiles a familiar smile, reaches up to adjust the strap of his eyepatch, which still looks strange on his face, like it doesn’t belong.  
“Great. I can’t wait”, Eggsy answers, and means it.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and he falls asleep ten minutes after he came come, kissed his mum on the cheek and hugged Daisy tightly. He still has a smile on his face.

 

Eggsy is twenty-seven and spends half the day with his sister, letting Daisy paint his toenails a glittery blue and sneaking pieces of candy into her room. They watch Aristocats twice and Daisy sings along to every song, falls asleep on his lap.  
Eggsy carries her back into her bed, tucks her in and presses a kiss to her forehead before he leaves.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight (just so, really) and Harry is fifty-three and hopefully doesn’t know that it takes Eggsy two and a half hours to get ready before they meet.  
He doesn’t know where the time goes; it seems to seep through his fingers while he showers, shaves, picks out his clothes, because by the time he attaches his cufflinks (the ones Harry gave him the year before, glittering in a shade of blue that perfectly matches the fabric of his suit), it’s fifteen minutes past seven.

He sends Roxy a picture and she responds with a picture of her in the Indian headquarters, a grin on her lips and giving him a thumbs up. And because Roxy is a good friend, she doesn’t comment on the fact that this is not a date, just dinner, instead sends another picture of her and an elderly man, titled _Me and my new friend Murugan. He’s the Indian Merlin._

 _Tell him hi from me_ , Eggsy texts back, then adds, _Gotta go, I’ll keep u updated._  
His mum is waiting downstairs, looks at Eggsy strangely when he comes into the kitchen, gives a little twirl to show off just how good this suit makes his arse look.  
“Who did ya say you was going out with?”, his mum asks, although Eggsy told her three times already, but ever since Roxy left that hickey on his neck, she won’t stop trying to make him admit he’s seeing someone.

“Just me boss”, Eggsy replies, like the last three times, smoothing out his lapels with his palms, checking that his shoes are shined and his cufflinks are secured. “’s nothing too special, but he’s nice an’ I wanna make a good impression, y’know?”  
“Ah”, his mum answers, but doesn’t sound convinced at all. “Sure.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and still feels like he is just sixteen, on his way to his first date with Eloise from school, only that Eloise had been thin and freckled, with long, chestnut hair and a hint of a lisp, while Harry is tall and handsome and the best person Eggsy knows; isn’t even interested.  
Still, his heart is beating far too fast, far too hard when he watches the busy streets, tries to figure out where they are going, what Harry has planned.

What he expects is something fancy, modern, but they stop in front of a tiny restaurant, a few small tables in front of a glass front. A brown sign with golden letters above it, spelling out _Orsini_.  
It’s nothing Eggsy could ever have foreseen, and for a few moments, he thinks that this must be a mistake, but then his eyes find Harry’s face in the middle of customers and waiters, one of the few faces he would recognise everywhere, at any time.

His heart speeds up once more, because this is like in the movies, this is _Bridget Jones_ and _Fourplay_ and _Love Actually_ and although it’s impossible, Eggsy allows himself to imagine this is the date he’d wish it to be for a moment.  
No longer though, because the driver clears his throat, and Eggsy jumps, mumbles a short, “Sorry.”  
He climbs out of the taxi, closes the door softly; when he turns back, Harry is watching him through the window, looking handsome as ever in his dark suit, his hair slicked back and, Eggsy realises suddenly, not wearing his glasses. Which means that it’s just them for tonight.

Taking off his own glasses, Eggsy walks into the restaurant, which is cosy and a little cramped, smelling too much of food to be considered proper.  
Although he doesn’t fit in with the other guests, Harry looks like he is perfectly at ease, and Eggsy can hardly keep the smile off his lips when Harry rises to greet him.  
“Happy birthday”, the older man say, and although Eggsy has heard those words at least twenty times today, it still feels important, special.

“Thanks”, he replies, sits down and watches Harry do the same. “What’s this place, then? I thought it’d be one of those restaurants where they only serve you three bits o’ pasta and half a chicken wing and call it a meal.”  
Harry laughs and Eggsy feels… feels like this is _it_ again, like there is Harry and no one else, but also like this could be enough. Because as long as Harry laughs like this, looks at him fondly, and takes him to obscure little Italian restaurants, he might just be able to cope.

“Well, you asked me once if I had always been like this and the answer is no”, Harry says, and it takes Eggsy a few moments until he remembers what Harry means – what seems like ages ago, he asked about Harry’s past, if he had always been posh and well-educated and proper, but he would never have expected Harry to remember.

“When I was your age - no, actually, younger still, just about twenty - I used to come here a lot. And believe me, this is the clean, sophisticated version of this place, back then it was a real shithole. Dirty plates, absolutely horrifying posters of the Italian Riviera stuck on every wall, but the most delicious food I had ever had.”  
Harry stops for a second, and Eggsy wonders if he is reminiscing, if he can see the restaurant he describes in his mind. “It was owned by this lovely couple, I can’t remember their names, but they had two children, twins. A boy and a girl, two or three years older than me. Wanda and Pietro. I’d come here every other night, have a chat with the parents, dinner and then sleep with the twin that was working that night.”

Harry grins and Eggsy chokes on his breath, stutters, “W-What?”  
Something in his chest grows light and sweet and hopeful; it’s still impossible that Harry could return his feelings and yet it seems more likely now, when Harry had an affair with some Italian boy, no matter how long ago.  
“I did tell you I wasn’t always like this”, the other replies, his eye twinkling mischievously. He must have planned this, and Eggsy must have reacted exactly how he wanted him to. “I did have my wilder days.”

“That’s some wilder days ya ‘ad. Free love an’ all, huh?” Eggsy picks up the menu, smiles, even if his mind is still reeling, unable to catch up with all this new information. He can hardly imagine a young Harry Hart, especially one who’d eat in a small, run down restaurant, then go and fuck the children of the patrons.  
“Was you a hippie then?”, Eggsy answers just a moment later, because he watched Hair, and because he desperately wants to believe that Harry used to have long, flowing locks down to his waist, flowers threaded through button holes, singing along to The Beatles and Jimmy Hendrix.

Harry sets down the menu he was just looking at suddenly, looks at Eggsy with something like amusement, like mirth. “Not at all. _Never trust a hippie_ , that’s what my youth movement of choice used to say.”  
A moment passes in which Eggsy doesn’t quite understand what Harry is trying to tell him, but then…  
“You was a punk?”, he asks, mouth refusing to close. “Like, whole package? Badly dyed hair and safety pins and all? _Do you have a tat_?”

For some reason, it’s easier to imagine Harry like that, in ripped jeans and a tattered leather jacket, his hair dyed blonde or blue or green and sticking in every possible direction, defying gravity with the help of Nivea lotion and sugar water.  
“Were you pierced? “ Eggsy is leaning forward slightly, more interested in this than in food and wine and potential birthday presents. “ _Are_ you pierced?”

But Harry just smiles, picks his menu up again and gestures for Eggsy to do the same.  
“That’s classified.”  
Eggsy can’t help but groan.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-three, gives him a watch for his birthday. Not a Kingsman model, just a normal one, but it's beautiful, elegant, black and white, with splinters of sapphire marking the numbers.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and he walks home with a smile on his lips and Harry’s fond look burnt into his retinas, to the point where he just has to close his eyes to see the other in front of him, handsome and smiling, possibly pierced.  
He still loves Harry, but by now that is not a surprise anymore; it has become another constant, another thing he can rely on. The world is spinning, his eyes are blue, he loves Harry Hart more than he can comprehend.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight when the door to his office opens without anyone knocking before. It’s far too late for anyone else to be here (Eggsy just hasn’t left because he fell asleep on his desk in the middle of the afternoon, his head pillowed on paperwork), which makes it even more surprising when Gawain peeks into the room.  
Usually, the other man is the first to leave and the last to come in; it’s the reason why Eggsy likes him, even if they never really talked.

“Evening”, Gawain greets, smiles, and Eggsy smiles back. “Can I come in?”  
“Sure thing, mate”, Eggsy replies, admits to himself that he is rather happy to be disturbed; something that they don’t tell you about in training is that being an agent also means paperwork, and that paperwork might be the most boring thing in existence.  
“Ah, great.” Gawain steps inside, a six-pack of beer in one hand, while he closes the door with the other. “You’re a life saver, Galahad. Drinking alone always depresses me.”

Eggsy grins, puts away his pen and takes off his glasses, leans back a little.  
“Yeah, same”, he answers, gestures at the chair, because Gawain is a proper gentleman, doesn’t sit down until he is told to. “What’s the occasion, though?”  
“Ah, nothing really. The wife’s at her parents, and she took the kids with her and I hate coming home to an empty house. And since I’ve finished all the paperwork I’ve had lying around for five months or so, alcohol is now my only excuse to stay out.”  
Gawain hands Eggsy a bottle, watches when Eggsy uses his teeth to get the cap off. He looks suitably impressed, and Eggsy grins, gives him a wink.

“I would have had a bottle opener”, Gawain remarks, and Eggsy shrugs, watches when the other opens his beer in a more conventional way.  
“Isn’t as good a show, though”, he answers, and Gawain hums in agreement, clinks their bottles together.  
The beer might be just what Eggsy needed, so he takes too big a gulp, feels the liquid rush down his throat, cold and bitter.

“Fuck, that’s just what the doctor ordered”, Gawain sighs and puts his bottle down a few moments after Eggsy, who nods, takes another sip.  
“So, you’ve a wife an’ kids?”, he asks, because he had no idea; in fact, he has little knowledge of most the other agents private lives. It’s nothing that comes up when you mostly see each other in conferences, or when you’re fixing yourself a cup of tea.

“Yes. Her name is Lekha and the best thing is that she used to work for the Indian apartment, so I can safely tell her about my work.” Gawain takes another sip of beer. His eyes have softened slightly, and Eggsy can’t help but smile, wonder if the other man carries pictures of his children with him in his wallet. “She’s in Amroha, visiting her parents, and she took the boys with her, so it’s just me and Chewie the Second.”

“Chewie the Second?”, Eggsy asks, tries to raise an eyebrow like Harry does so often, but he might lack the practice, might be too exhausted for it to really work.  
“That’s the dog.” Gawain explains with a chuckle. “The first one died a couple of years ago and we didn’t want the kids to know, because they were still so tiny, so we got another one. Same breed, same dumb little face, farts just as much as the last one when he sleeps.”

It makes Eggsy think a little of JB, who has thankfully taken up sleeping in Daisy’s room, where he can’t wake him up in the middle of the night.  
“You know what the worst thing is?”, Gawain asks, “I didn’t even know he was a fucking pug. I thought he was a bulldog.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and finds out that Gawain is forty-three and indeed carries pictures of his two boys around in his wallet.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and gives Roxy, who just turned twenty-nine, a lunchbox with Kim Possible on it.  
“That’s you”, he explains, points at Kim in the front, then at Ron next to her. “And that’s me. And the naked ferret thing, that’s Merlin.”  
Roxy laughs and laughs, which might be because they had five shots of tequila before this, or because Eggsy is just _really good_ with presents. He doesn’t tell her about the bracelet he has hidden inside of it.

It's shaped like a snake, because Roxy has a thing for snakes for some reason, silver and just thin enough that he thinks Roxy will like it, little, glittery emeralds forming its eyes.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Merlin calls him although he still has a week off. It’s never a good sign, and Eggsy expects another world wide crisis, a terrorist attack, some last follower of Valentine, but it’s even worse.  
“I’m just telling you this now, because you will find out anyway. And because like this, you can yell at Harry and not at me.” Merlin sounds exhausted, and that’s not a good sign either; Eggsy’s heart clenches up a bit because Merlin mentioned Harry; if Harry is involved, everything can only be worse.  
“What ‘appened?”, he asks, isn’t sure if he wants to know the answer, if he wants to know how bad it is.

“Idiot got shot again”, Merlin says (and Eggsy’s heart stops, his blood freezes in his veins, his breath turns poisonous in his lungs). “It’s nothing dangerous, at least not really dangerous, not life-threatening. Just a flesh wound right in his side, but still.”  
“Where is he?”, Eggsy asks, doesn’t ask anything else, because Harry is alive and he needs to see him, needs to make sure what Merlin says is true.  
“I’ll send a cab.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-three, dressed in only a hospital gown, but he is sitting instead of lying, and that alone is a relief. Still, he has seen Harry Hart in far too many hospitals already.  
“What the fuck?”, he snaps once he is standing in front of Harry, staring down at him. “What the actual fuck? You’re fuckin’ Arthur, ‘arry, you’re _Arthur_ , ya don’t do this. Ya don’t go out and get fuckin’ shot, ya do paperwork and bitch at me for ignorin’ regulations.”

He’s angrier than he thought he’d be, almost livid with rage, shaking with it, because Harry should be in an office, should be safe, and not getting shot at somewhere outside.  
Harry doesn’t say anything, and for some reason it makes Eggsy even angrier, that Harry just listens, just watches him.  
“Why the fuck did ya go on that mission anyway?”, he demands to know, almost a little bit desperate to at least hear Harry’s voice.

“It was important”, Harry answers, his voice a little bit rough and yet soft around the edges – pain medication, Eggsy realises. “We couldn’t put it off and everyone was busy… and it wasn’t supposed to be dangerous. There weren’t even supposed to be guns.”  
“I wasn’t busy! I was at ‘ome!”  
“You had time off”, Harry states, like it isn’t even a question, like it would have been impossible to call Eggsy. “And you did too much those last weeks. I couldn’t have.”  


Eggsy is twenty-eight and again spends a night at the hospital, curled up in a chair next to Harry, who is still, will always be, twenty-six years older than him.  
He didn’t have to stay, Harry had told him that at least a dozen times and Eggsy knows it too, but it would feel wrong to leave. No matter if Harry likes it, no matter what he feels for Eggsy, this is his place, the one he chose.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-three, wakes him up far too early with a cup of tea and a smile that looks like it hurts.  
It’s just past eight and Eggsy expects Harry to still be dressed impeccably, not a strand of brown hair out of place, but the other man looks like he just got up, wearing his old, red robe over his hospital gown, a hint of stubble dusted over his cheeks and jaw.

Not many people have seen Harry like this, Eggsy is sure of that, and the thought is almost as warm as the cup of tea he accepts eagerly, wrapping both hands around the porcelain.  
“Mornin’”, Eggsy greets, his voice still soft and rough with sleep, yawns. “Shouldn’t I be the one bringin’ tea an’ all? After all, it’s you who managed to get shot.”  
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”, Harry asks, takes a sip of tea and grimaces.

It has to be hard to have such a refined taste, Eggsy thinks to himself, gulps down half of his tea, decides it’s not half bad. He’s had worse.  
“Never”, he confirms, smiles and takes another mouthful of tea. “Prepare yourself. “

Harry smiles back.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and when he comes home, his mum is sitting in the kitchen, looking like she hasn’t slept half the night. It’s early afternoon, and Eggsy is still wearing the same clothes as the day before, meets her eyes and knows what she’ll say before she opened her mouth.

“Where’ve you been?”, she says, and Eggsy can hear that she’s tired, that she was worried. Maybe it’s ridiculous, because he is twenty-eight years old, he can take care of himself, but Eggsy understands.  
“Out with the lads”, he replies, keeps his answer vague because he hates lying to his mum, and yet cannot tell her the truth. “Crashed at Rob’s cuz I didn’t want to wake ya and Daisy.”  
“Ah.” She doesn’t believe one word he says, and Eggsy knows it, understands why, but there is no other way. “Send me a text or something next time, will ya? I’ve been worried sick all mornin’.”

“Yeah”, Eggsy answers, fairly certain that they both know he’s lying. “Sure, mum.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Roxy is twenty-nine and he goes out that night again, because everything is tense at home, the air and every word his mother utters. So he calls Roxy, meets her in one of the fancy bars she likes so much. They have cocktails with names Eggsy can hardly pronounce, so it’s up to Roxy to order; it leaves him with a glaringly pink drink, decorated with one of those tiny umbrellas.  
It tastes like strawberries and grenadine and might be the best thing Eggsy ever had.

“So what’s the matter?”, Roxy asks, looks at him over the rim of her glass.  
“Mum’s mad ‘cause I stayed all night with ‘arry. An’ it’s like she’s staring at me disapprovingly wherever I go in the ‘ouse and I’m not big on that so I thought I’d rather get pissed with me best mate.” Eggsy gives Roxy a smile, hopes it’s bright enough to conceal that he’s still worried about Harry, how much he hates lying to his mother, that he’s scared he’ll have to do it even more often in the future.

It doesn’t seem to work quite as well as he hoped, because Roxy looks at him with warm, brown eyes and a compassionate smile.  
“The whole night, really?”, she asks, and sighs when Eggsy nods. “You’re in too deep, babe.”  
Eggsy can’t do anything but nod again.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Roxy is twenty-nine, sucks hard on his throat.  
“Bruv, can you knock it off with the hickeys?”, Eggsy gasps out, skims his hands down Roxy’s back. He grabs her arse, squeezes it and Roxy makes a soft, sweet sound at the back of her throat, but only sucks harder. “Seriously, me mum’s gonna ask about me mystery girlfriend again.”

And finally Roxy pulls back, sits up and pulls Eggsy with her, rakes her nails down his back.  
“Tough luck”, she answers with a slightly tipsy, mischievous smile, latches onto his neck again; this time, Eggsy can’t even protest, just moans and lets her.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and manages to text his mum to tell her he’s not coming home tonight, even though he’s exhausted and sticky and Roxy is snoring softly next to him.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-three, when Eggsy sets foot in HQ for the first time in almost three weeks, not even surprised when he finds that he’s glad to be back. Everything here feels like home by now, not just the meeting room, not just his office, but the smell and the subtle creaking of the floor when he steps in certain places, the smell.  
He nods at Percival, who walks past him, but doesn’t stop, instead makes his way to Harry’s office, which also feels like home.

He doesn’t knock, not because he forgets but because this has become his thing, their thing somehow, something Harry still scolds him for occasionally, even if they both know that the other man doesn’t mind it.  
Harry is sitting at his desk like almost always, even if he’s been shot, looks up at Eggsy with warm brown eyes and a smile on his lips.

With warm brown _eyes_. It takes half a moment until Eggsy realises what is wrong, can pinpoint it. He’s looking at Harry, who looks back, no black eyepatch covering the left side of his face.  
“What.”  
His legs don’t work for several moments and then move on their own account, carry Eggsy closer to the desk, closer to Harry. They only stop when he is standing directly in front of the other, their knees almost touching; Harry doesn’t get up and Eggsy leans in, tries to get a good look.

And he must have forgotten everything, anything else but the fact that Harry looks like he should again, because he reaches out and takes off Harry’s glasses, is met with dark, warm brown eyes, looking at him curiously. His heart is beating fast and hard in his chest, threatening to burst from it, but Eggsy ignores it, focusses on the fact that the artificial eye is just a little too white, that the iris isn’t quite the right shade of brown, just a bit too dark.  
Mostly, he focusses on not hugging Harry.

The moment passes, Eggsy breathes in and out again, and suddenly realises how close they are, that they are almost sharing each other’s breath, that he could ruin everything between them and kiss Harry right here. He could lean in and possibly sacrifice a whole life of friendship for a kiss, and for a moment, Eggsy contemplates it.  
Because he’s spent hours upon hours imagining it, trying to figure out how Harry would taste, how he would kiss, if he would moan when Eggsy sucked on his tongue.

But he doesn’t, can’t, because Harry is more important than that, just allows himself to relish the possibility for another moment or two before he pulls back, flustered and lost for words.  
“Uh…”, Eggsy starts, tries to start, takes another step back and lets Harry’s glasses fall onto his desk. “’S not bad, really. But the colour’s a bit off.”

Harry is still looking at him, curious and calm, and Eggsy can feel himself flush harder, unsure what reaction to expect, but then Harry’s lips curl upwards, fond and a little amused.  
“Don’t let Merlin hear that”, he says and Eggsy relaxed slightly, smiles back. “He worked very hard on it. Or so he told me.”  
“Gonna keep me mouth shut then”, Eggsy answers and even means it, then adds, “I like it, though. Makes ya look more like you again.”

“Thank you”, Harry answers, and then adds something that makes Eggsy’s heart swell and stop at the same time. “I hoped you would.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and dreams of Harry that night, Harry with empty, bloodied eye sockets, staring at him, but also Harry who looks at him fondly, almost lovingly.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Rob calls him when he’s in Thailand, meeting a contact. He sounds terrified and at the same time exhilarated, and it takes Eggsy several seconds to even make sense of what he is saying.  
“Mate, I did… I knocked ‘er up, I knocked Lindsay up… we’re ‘avin’ a baby. An actual baby, Eggsy, can ya believe that?”

And Eggsy can’t, not really, because for him, time stopped with Kingsman, at least to come extent, and yet there it is, proof that for everyone else, the world continued spinning.  
“Congrats, mate”, he still answers, can’t keep the smile of his face. Maybe time passing isn’t the worst of things.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, sends him to Bursa, Turkey. He’s got a smile on his face when he sends Eggsy off, who keeps thinking of that smile for the whole flight and some time after that.  
There isn’t much to do, just like during the last two or three missions, just a bit of surveillance, and Eggsy could feel offended, but chooses to enjoy it instead. It’s warm, a little humid, but Eggsy finds that he loves it, that it tastes sweet on his lips and tongue.

Sometimes, Kingsman has taught him that, you just set foot in a city and know you belong in it just like it belongs with you, and Eggsy can feel his heart wrapping around Bursa, taking in every detail of every step.

 _Luv it here_ , he texts Harry, something he only allows himself occasionally, since he still isn’t sure if Harry appreciates or is annoyed by it. But now, because he is feeling light and happy and still thinks of Harry’s smile when a boy passes him, grinning up at his mother, he snaps a picture of Bursa spread out in front of him.

Usually, it takes Harry some time to respond, and yet Eggsy’s phone vibrates before he can even put it away.  
_I hoped you would_ , the text reads, and it’s nice to think that Harry considered it, how he would like the city. And his phone vibrates again, just a few moments later.  
_Take a day off and go and see the Great and the Green Mosque. You will like them_ , the next text reads.

Eggsy hasn’t heard of either, but before Merlin uttered the name of this city, he hadn’t ever heard of Bursa either, so that doesn’t seem to mean much.  
_Is that an order?_ , he texts back although he means to follow Harry’s advice anyway, because he likes it when Harry pulls rank, likes to be reminded of what Harry is to all of them, not just him.

 _Yes_ , comes the answer, and although he’s in the middle of the street, Eggsy chuckles. He knows exactly how Harry would look at him if they were in the same room, almost unmoved but with a hint of humour hidden in his brown eyes. _And send pictures. It’s been too long since I’ve been in Bursa._

 _Roger that, Arthur_ , Eggsy texts back, stores his phone in his pockets and takes another breath of sweet, fragrant air.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and spends a week watching a middle-aged woman with a liking for expensive designer handbags, margaritas in the morning and far too young rent boys, then takes a day off and visits both mosques Harry was talking about.  
And as it does so often, it turns out that Harry was right about this too, he loves them both, the intricate mosaics, the grandiosity, the colours and smells. He takes a hundred pictures and sends Harry at least half of them; Eggsy still can’t help but wish the other was there with him, explaining the meanings behind the symbols on the walls and the fountains, the history that even he could feel hidden within these walls.

 _Thank you_ , Harry texts back after Eggsy sent a last picture of him leaving the Green Mosque, or Yesil Camii, as he found out it’s called.  
_No problem_ , Eggsy replies, adds, _See u back at the shop?_  
_I’m not in today. But if you wanted to, you could come by after Merlin briefed you. I was going to make a roast later._

A smile blossoms on Eggsy’s face, because Harry is an excellent cook and because it’s been weeks since they last had an evening together, spent with wine and talk and Eggsy trying hard not to touch Harry when he’s had a little bit too much to drink. It’s a kind of intimacy he was sure they’d lose, but somehow, they’ve managed.  
_Sure thing! I’ll bring the wine_ , Eggsy texts back and the answer comes just a few moments later.  
_Don’t you dare._

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, opens the door to find Eggsy with a bottle of Merlot in his hands. It’s made of plastic and has a cap to screw off, and Eggsy smiles as innocently as he possibly can when he hands it to the other.  
“Got you somethin’”, he greets Harry, hands him the bottle.

Although it has to be impossibly difficult, Harry doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, just takes it and smiles; Eggsy is still startled to be met with two eyes, a giddy feeling rising up his throat, almost making him choke on it.  
“Thank you”, Harry says, steps aside and lets Eggsy in, who feels a bit like coming home. In a perfect world, Harry would be easier to touch, better with physical closeness. He isn’t, though, so Eggsy keeps his itching fingers to himself, instead toes off his shoes and follows Harry to the kitchen.

It smells heavenly and there are two glasses of wine waiting for them. Eggsy doesn’t wait until Harry hands him one, just snatches it, smiles at the other’s mock exasperation.  
They clink glasses, and Eggsy takes a gulp too large to still be considered elegant, but it’s past seven and he’s been up for more than twenty-four hours. He’s too tired to care.

“How did you like Bursa?”, Harry asks, sets his glass aside after a tiny sip while Eggsy keeps his in his hand, even if he does take care to wrap his fingers around the stem and only that.  
“Loved it, seriously. I dunno what it even was, but it was just, like… it was beautiful, you know? Just that. Beautiful. Even if the mission sucked arse.”

Swearing around Harry has always been something Eggsy delighted in, because of all the things he is sure he does wrong all the time, this is the one Harry genuinely doesn’t seem to mind.  
“I know what you mean”, the other says, and it’s as if his eyes just got brighter, warmer, as if Eggsy said something right. “I wish I could have gone with you. It’s been too long since I’ve been there.”

There is something in Harry’s words which makes Eggsy’s heart skip a beat, even if the intent behind them surely was nothing but innocent. But it’s something he thought about too when he was still walking along the busy streets of Bursa, when he looked at mosaics older than both of them combined and letters he could not read. Of Harry beside him, seeing the same things, talking and explaining and maybe even taking pictures.  
“Well, why didn’t ya come along then?”, he asks, and his heart is still beating fast and hard and loud, makes him forget about the wine and dinner and everything around them. “Thought Arthur would get whatever ‘e wanted.”

Harry chuckles, slowly takes off his glasses, and in some ways, it’s more intimate than stripping down to his pants would be; it’s just them now, Harry and Eggsy, not Arthur and Galahad. Just them.  
“I wish”, Harry answers and Eggsy only realises he’s speaking a second too late. “Unfortunately, being Arthur also means a ton of paperwork to take care of. And more than just one agent to watch.”

There is no way they’re standing closer together now, because none of them has moved, and yet it feels like it to Eggsy, who has trouble breathing, trouble finding words to answer. Harry is right there, tall and warm and everything Eggsy ever wanted, and it would be so easy to take that step forward and kiss him.  
But again, he doesn’t, just says, “Maybe next time, then.”

“Yes”, Harry says, and Eggsy feels like he is flying, a grin slowly splitting his face in two. “I’d like that a lot.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Roxy is twenty-nine, texts him, _Oh God, this is the worst date in history._  
He’s sitting at home, watching some romcom with his mum, Daisy drawing one princess after another on the floor, so he doesn’t chuckle, doesn’t smile at his phone, because after the last time he came home with two of Roxy’s hickeys on his throat, his mother wouldn’t stop asking about a girlfriend. The last thing Eggsy wants is to fuel her suspicions.

 _What did he do?,_ he texts back quickly, though; Roxy has taken up online dating, and he won’t make her go through that alone. He’s not that kind of friend.  
_We’re in this restaurant and I ordered a cheeseburger and he keeps telling me about my arteries closing up and me having a heart attack because of it._  
This time, Eggsy can’t help but laugh, because he can picture the scene too well. And of course his mum notices, turns around and looks at him questioningly.  
“’s just Rob, he’s on some ‘orrible date”, Eggsy lies immediately, tries to stick as close to the truth as possible though.

“I thought ‘e knocked up ‘is girl”, Michelle answers, clearly not convinced, and Eggsy barely suppresses a flinch. Ah, shit.  
“Yeah, ‘s with ‘er. Guess pregnancy changed her or somethin’?”  
His mother doesn’t look convinced at all, but lets it go, and Eggsy texts back.  
_That bad? Want me to call and fake some emergency?_

 _You’re a true friend_ , Roxy answers, adds a second later. _In an hour at my place? I’ve got Sambuca._  
And Eggsy shouldn’t, because they have to be in early tomorrow, and because if anything, it will make his mother more suspicious, but he loves Sambuca and he loves Roxy too much to say no.  
_Sure thing, gimme a sec and I’ll make that call._

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and kisses Daisy goodbye and goodnight, tells her that the princess she is currently drawing looks just like Ariel. Michelle is watching him, clearly suspicious, but only smiles at him when he kisses her cheek.  
“’ave fun, babe”, she says and Eggsy nods, grins.  
“Sure, mum. Don’t wait up, though, I think it’ll get late.”

She’s waiting for him to explain why, but Eggsy doesn’t; just waves and walks out. It's not that he couldn’t explain it – it’s easy, really, they’re mates and sometimes, every so often, they end up in Roxy’s bed, or on a sofa, a table, a back alley behind a club, fucking until they can’t think anymore – but he doesn’t think his mother would understand.  
Deep down, Michelle is still a romantic, cries when watching the old Pride and Prejudice VHS she still owns, and Eggsy doesn’t want to tell her that he’s hopelessly in love, but instead of staying pure rather fucks his best friend for relief.

Roxy is already waiting for him when he gets there, still dressed in one of her good dresses, lipstick slightly smudged and a can of beer in her hand.  
“You’re late”, she says, takes a long gulp.  
“You’re drunk”, Eggsy counters, steps inside and shrugs off his jacket, toes off his shoes.  
“Yes, I am”, Roxy answers and sounds faintly pleased, ushers Eggsy inside and hands him a beer.

It’s not even cold anymore, but Eggsy has had worse things to drink in his life, so he opens the can, sits down. Roxy follows, plops down on his lap, which maybe isn’t as surprising as it should be.  
Her arms loop around Eggsy’s neck, pull him close enough to press a messy, wet kiss to Eggsy’s lips; Eggsy answers with pulling Roxy’s legs up until she’s straddling him, rolling her hips in that way that drives Eggsy crazy.  
“That must’ve been some date”, Eggsy comments once Roxy has pulled back, licks his lips, which taste sweet, feel sticky with gloss.

Roxy lets her head fall forward against his chest, groans loudly. She must have at least had some of that Sambuca already, Eggsy thinks bemusedly.  
“It was _so_ bad, Eggsy. You don’t even know. He had a green smoothie as an aperitif. Does that even count as an aperitif? I’m not sure.” She sits up straight again, looks at him with more pain in her eyes than he ever expected to see. “He ordered a salad, Eggsy. I was ready to shoot him by the time he had taken one bite of it.”

“Well, he must’ve fucked up a lot, seeing that ya were so ready to get down an’ dirty”, Eggsy comments, and Roxy grins in the most dangerously wicked way, slides closer and rolls her hips down hard against Eggsy, makes him gasp. It's been some time since the last honeypot mission, and some time since they last did this, so he reacts to the pressure, the friction easily, his cock hardening in his pants.  
“Fuck, I really was. Like, he was gorgeous, and it’s been far too long”, Roxy says casually, like they were talking about the weather, and Eggsy hates her a little for it.

He slides his hands around Roxy’s body, under her dress and grips her arse, squeezes.  
“You want me to take care o’ that?”, he asks and grins when Roxy makes a tiny sound at the back of her throat.  
“Yeah-”, she says and Eggsy kisses the rest of the answer off her lips.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Roxy is twenty-nine; Harry is fifty-four and looks at them strangely when they pass him in the hall, Roxy hung over and both of them exhausted, Eggsy’s lips still slightly swollen.

He only notices the smudges of lipstick left on his throat a few minutes later.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and brings his mum back a fridge magnet from New Zealand, two kiwis holding up a heart with their beaks. He thinks it’s cheesy and a little bit adorable, and his mother smiles when she looks at it, so Eggsy thinks he’s made the right choice.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Merlin asks him to come to his office. He looks a little fidgety, which is different and new and strange, but Eggsy doesn’t comment on it, just follows the other man, who closes the door behind them tightly.  
“Eggsy”, he starts, and he sounds different too, when he reaches behind him to grasp a little box, wrapped in green paper and adorned with a bow. “Two things. First, Arthur requested you’d go with Tristan to Athens, to collect some blueprints from them, God knows why. And second…” There is a little pause, then Merlin continues, “A woman works in the tech department there, she’s called Polyhymna. Give her this.”

He hands Eggsy the box, who smiles and bites back any teasing remarks, because although Merlin has an even better poker face than Harry, Eggsy can see that this means a lot to him. That this woman, this Polyhymna must mean a lot to him too.  
“Sure thing”, he says instead, notices just how prettily Merlin wrapped the present. “You can count on me, mate.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and is forcibly reminded just why he dislikes Tristan so much.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and a beautiful woman greets him when he and Tristan walk into the Greek HQ. He has never met her before, and yet Eggsy knows that it has to be Polyhymna; she keeps looking at the both of them expectantly, as if she expected something special.  
“You Merlin’s chick?”, he asks her, watches her dark eyes light up, her mouth curl upwards.  
“I am, as long as he didn’t call me that”, she answers, and Eggsy chuckles, decides he likes her right there. “I think you’ve got something for me?”

“Yeah. There ya go.” Eggsy fishes the box out of his pocket and places it in her hand, hoping she won’t notice that he might have slept half on top of it.  
Polyhymna takes it, brushes her fingertips over the soft satin bow almost lovingly; Eggsy’s heart clenches a little, because he can see the affection pouring from her, and in some way, he’s envious. Because this is something he doesn’t think he’ll ever have.

With the present still in her hand, Polyhymna reaches into her handbag, produces another boxe, deep red and wrapped a little clumsily, which she puts into Eggsy’s hand.  
“Tell him thank you. And give him this, please.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and comes back from his non-mission to find Merlin’s office deserted. It's not often that the other man takes some time off, so Eggsy doesn’t mind at all, just leaves Polyhymna’s present on his desk for Merlin to find in the morning.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Roxy texts him, _This dude is checking Tinder while I’m sitting directly in front of him._  
Before he can reply, his phone vibrates again, and again.  
_I’m so gonna get back at this dick.  
I stole his phone and left, and now I am going to upload every dick pic I can find on his FB profile. _

He makes a mental note never to mess with Roxy, ever again.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, knocks at the door to his office in the morning.  
It’s far too early for Eggsy’s taste, and yet Harry looks impeccable as always, carries two mugs of coffee and sets one of them down in front of Eggsy.  
“Cheers, mate”, Eggsy greets, takes a sip and promptly burns his tongue. “What’s up?”

“I need you on a mission”, Harry says, and Eggsy’s face falls a little bit, because Harry isn’t here to just say hi, to wish him a good morning and tell him something trivial and yet impossibly important. He’s not here as a friend but as Eggsy’s boss, and that is a completely different thing.  
“What mission?”  
“Nothing too difficult, just surveillance”, Harry takes a sip of his own coffee, then continues, “Three weeks, tops. I will send Gawain to accompany you the first week at least.”

Of all the things Eggsy didn’t want to hear, this must be number one, because Eggsy loves mission but hates surveillance, enjoys travelling but would like to stay home for just a week or two occasionally too. But he can’t say no, because Harry is his boss, and if Harry wants him to do this, there is surely a good reason for it.  
“Sure. Where’re we goin’?”, he asks, hopes for something special, exotic, another place he never thought he’d ever see. Egypt, maybe, or Taiwan.  
“Carlow, Ireland. You should go home and pack, Eggsy, maybe tell your mother that you’ll be away for a couple of weeks.” Harry gives him a smile that is a little cooler than it should be, but maybe that is just Eggsy’s imagination.  
It still feels like punishment.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and he’s never been in Carlow before. He never wanted to, either, and God, he doesn’t want to be here now.  
Surveillance has never been his favourite thing to do, and right now he is sitting next to Gawain in the third car this week, watching the other man text his children and wife. They’re doing good, far better than the two of them, and Eggsy has already seen every picture of Susan and Peter and every one they have ever drawn. He’s shown Gawain – who is called Albert in real life, apparently – at least as many of Daisy.

Roxy occasionally texts about dates that go different kinds of bad, his mum sends pictures of his sister, but their target is so boring that that isn’t enough. They’re watching a man in his forties, who doesn’t seem to do more than go to work and back again, occasionally picking up a hooker or two, which, unfortunately for Eggsy right now, isn’t illegal.

Next to him, Gawain chuckles fondly, and Eggsy checks his phone for the third time that hour, hoping anything, everything has happened in the last few minutes. It hasn’t.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Gawain – Albert, really, after sitting together in a car for ten days straight – pulls him into a half-hug, a big suitcase in his hand. He’s allowed to leave and Eggsy has to stay here, watch over the dullest target in the whole history of Kingsman.  
“I still wish I knew what you did to piss Arthur off this much”, Albert says, and Eggsy’s heart sinks a little in his chest, because he thought this felt like punishment, but having the other say it out-loud is a completely different thing.

“So ya think this is punishment?”, he asks, and Albert shrugs.  
“Well, I know that it was punishment for me. I sort of blew up a building during that last mission. A building that really didn’t need blowing up.” He grins, quite obviously not sorry at all. “Merlin wasn’t pleased, let me tell you. So I assumed that you had done something far worse still, seeing that I get out now, and you’ve got to stay here.”

It makes sense, because Eggsy remembers Merlin being visibly pissed for at least a week after Gawain had last returned, but it also doesn’t, because he hasn’t blown anything up in months.  
“Dunno. Don’t think I did anythin’, to be honest”, he half-mumbles, which isn’t a very gentlemanly thing to do.  
“Hm.” Albert looks at Eggsy wistfully for a moment, claps him on the shoulder. “And here I was, thinking that our new Arthur still favoured his old recruit over the rest of us. Anyway, I’ve got to run, the plane’s waiting. Text me when you get really bored.”

Albert turns around and waves at Eggsy over his shoulder, whose shoulders droop, whose heart feels too heavy to still be beating.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Carlow doesn’t get better, prettier, more interesting alone. He send Albert a text to ask how he’s doing and gets a selfie back, showing the older man with his wife and kids, and Chewie the Second.

It’s at least enough to make him smile.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Roxy is twenty-nine, says, “Well, fuck him.”  
They’re on Eggsy’s bed and Roxy looks almost angry at his behalf, brows furrowed and voice low. “You haven’t done anything but be nice to him, do whatever he says, I don’t see why he’d have any reason to be upset at you.”  
She’s right and Eggsy knows it, still, he just sighs, falls down on the mattress with a plop. Roxy follows, lays down next to him.

“It really must be bad”, she says, shuffles to get more comfortable, but doesn’t look at Eggsy, just talks to the ceiling, which is good, because Eggsy doesn’t feel like looking at anyone right now. “You didn’t even make a joke about fucking Harry was what you wanted anyway.”  
“I know.” Eggsy makes a pathetic little sound at the back of his throat, maybe playing it up just a little, little bit for effect. “I mean, I thought about it but, I dunno. Not in the mood.”  
“Fuck”, Roxy says after a second and with just the right amount of conviction.

There is nothing Eggsy can think of adding.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Roxy is twenty-nine when they both stumble down the stairs of Eggsy’s house, Roxy in one of his old shirts and Eggsy just wearing an old pair of sweatpants.  
It’s not the way he wanted to introduce his new best friend to his mother, who is sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in her hand.  
“Uhhhh…”, Eggsy starts, but Roxy is faster than he is, as always, takes a step forward and holds out her hand.

“Mrs. Unwin, I’m so glad to finally meet you”, Roxy chirps, her most charming smile ready on her lips. “Eggsy told me a lot about you and your daughter.”  
“’as ‘e now?”, Michelle answers and takes Roxy’s hand, but doesn’t look at her for more than a minute. Instead, she looks at Eggsy, a knowing look in her eyes, which is exactly what Eggsy tried to prevent in the first place.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and stands in front of Harry’s house, who is fifty-four, for the second time, a bottle of cheap wine in his hand and something to tell the other he wishes he didn’t have to say.  
He’s still not quite sure what he has done to disappoint Harry so, but he’s been back for two days and nothing has changed, so Eggsy decided to make it change.

His heart is beating far too fast, but stops when he rings the doorbell, the sound shrill and unpleasant to Eggsy’s ears. For some time, there is nothing, no footsteps approaching, no face appearing above him in one of the many windows, and Eggsy is almost about to give up, go home, try again another time, when the door finally does open.

Harry looks like he always does and yet somehow different, tired and surprised to see Eggsy, though not pleased.  
“Can I come in?”, Eggsy asks before Harry can say a word, steps forward and raises his hand so Harry can see the bottle of wine – a Chardonnay for less than four pounds. “I brought something too.”

A few weeks ago, Harry would have smiled, now he just steps aside, looking at Eggsy with something in his eyes he cannot place; it’s soft and exhausted and maybe, just maybe, a little bit sad.  
“Of course”, Harry still says, because he is, above all else, a gentleman, leads Eggsy to the living room he knows so well by now.  
For a moment or two, Harry just stands there, doesn’t say a word, and Eggsy doesn’t know what to say either, just waits and watches Harry’s lips curl up into a smile, slowly, as if they had half-forgotten about how to do so. It’s not the kind of smile Eggsy is used to, but it’s just as warm, a mixture of disappointment and relief.

“It’s good to see you”, Harry says and Eggsy blinks, dumbfounded for a second, because he has expected a lot of things, but not hearing this. And yet, Harry’s voice sounds genuine, like he means it. “…thanks?”, Eggsy answers after a second, brows furrowed. “I mean, yeah, thanks.”  
He sits down, without asking for permission like always, but Harry doesn’t say a word, sits down too; Eggsy is glad for it, because like this, he can at least pretend they’re on the same level, that Harry isn’t mad and a thousand times better than him.

The bottle of wine is still in his hand, so Eggsy sets it down carefully on the coffee table between them, lets his eyes rest on it for a bit before he dares to look up at Harry again.  
He isn’t sure what exactly he expected – for the other to look distressed or angry or maybe even sad – but what he gets is neither.  
What he gets is Harry looking at him with the most perfectly schooled expression Eggsy has ever seen, not even a hint of emotion hidden in those brown eyes, as if he decided that Eggsy didn’t deserve the warmth that was in them after all. As if he had deemed it too dangerous, too misleading, too much.  
It’s a thousand times worse than anger could have been.

“So, what can I do for you?”, Harry asks and that is worse still, because the other man has never spoken to Eggsy like that. Like he would with a colleague, a business partner.  
“Uh…”, Eggsy starts, realises that he’s lost all his words, the whole speech he wanted to give, and all because he just can’t read Harry. “’s just, Gawain said ya might be mad at me. ‘n it kinda feels like it, y’know? It feels strange an’ I don’t like it.”

Harry is still sitting there, unmoved, and it drives Eggsy mad, makes him want to reach out and shake the other, make him say something, show him he feels something. But he can’t, can’t even get his hands to move when he tries to, so instead Eggsy does the only thing he knows how to, continues.  
“I’m not even the only one who noticed it”, he says, “Rox did. Even Merlin did, ‘e asked me last week what ‘ad happened. And I couldn’t even say anythin’, cuz I didn’t know. An’ that although I’m guessin’ it’s gotta be somethin’ big, if ya this pissed about it.”

It hurts, seeing Harry like this, a dull, throbbing pain, but Eggsy hardly notices it anymore, it has hurt for the past month, maybe longer; what he concentrates on is watching the other’s face, looking out for any signs that Harry is even listening. And there are some, even if they’re miniscule, hardly noticeable; a tremor in his hands before he clasps them in his lap, a breath he holds for too long.  
“C’mon, mate”, he finishes, knows that he is a second away from pleading, if even. “Work with me ‘ere. I can’t apologise for nothin’ when I dunno what I did wrong.”

There is a moment when Eggsy doesn’t know if it worked, if Harry realises just how much he needs things to go back to the way they used to be, but then the other looks down at his still clasped hands.  
“There is nothing you have to apologise for”, Harry says, and his voice is still calm and collected and far too cool, but Eggsy is willing to take whatever it is Harry is willing to give. “I’m not angry at you. But I am angry at myself, and I might have let that out on you. I’m sorry for that.”

Again, it’s not what Eggsy expected to hear, but it’s still hardly a relief. He expects more to follow, another explanation, a reason for all this, but the other stays silent, as if everything had been said.  
“What. That’s supposed t’ be it?”, he asks after a few moments, looks at Harry incredulously. “Are you kiddin’ me? That’s not an answer.”  
Harry looks back, as if he was torn between laughing and sighing, doesn’t do either, just takes a deep breath, his lips curling up ever so slightly. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

What follows are another few seconds of silence, but this time, Eggsy doesn’t dare interrupt, because Harry looks like he is contemplating each word he wants to say. It means that this is important, and Eggsy can feel how every of his muscles tenses, his chest tightening and his breath coming too heavily.  
“…And since you had the decency to talk to me last time…” The last few words sound more like an afterthought, something that Harry is only half-aware of muttering, but they set Eggsy’s skin on fire. There is no way this is what it sounds like, and yet Eggsy can’t suffocate that irrational, insane, fierce spark of hope in his chest, wouldn’t know how to.

“You must forgive an old man his infatuations”, Harry says and Eggsy can’t breathe anymore, can’t think, can only hope. “I did try to get rid of them, now that they’re not wanted anymore, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference – and I know that you’re with Roxanne, and I wouldn’t ever want to interfere – so I’ll just keep them to myself. Still, I’m sorry that-“  
It’s not what a gentleman would do, surely, but Eggsy doesn’t care, leans forward until he’s almost falling off the sofa, reaches out until he’s almost touching Harry, his fingertips hovering over Harry’s knee but not daring to touch.  
“I never was with Roxy”, he says, because he can’t bring himself to ask if he’s right, because he hopes it’s enough to make Harry understand. “I never was.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, looks at him and slowly, ever so slowly, as if the words were still sinking in, he watches the mask the other wore before come off. Harry still looks collected, but his eyes are lighting up until they are bright, almost burning through Eggsy with their intensity.  
It feels like every fibre of Harry’s body and every bit of his mind is concentrated on him, and it’s the strangest of feelings, exhilarating but frightening at the same time.

“I never was”, Eggsy repeats, because it feels like he has to say something and yet can’t find any words at all, and watches Harry straighten, almost unnoticeable movements, muscles tensing and stretching. He looks taller like that, even more in control if possible, and Eggsy feels his heart speed up until he can feel every beat, the blood rushing through his veins in pulses.

“I just assumed that you and Roxy were more than just friends, seeing that you came in together ever so often… and because of the marks on your neck.”  
Eggsy wishes there was some tremor in the other’s voice, some sign to show him what Harry was feeling, but there is nothing; it’s deep and well-articulated, makes Eggsy think of home and warmth and the rich taste of red wine.  
“Well, we shagged a couple o’ times”, Eggsy admits before he thinks about just how this must sound to Harry, blushes just the slightest bit when he does. “But there was never nothin’ else. No feelings or anythin’.”

He doesn’t say the rest out-loud – _there was only ever you_ – but thinks, hopes that Harry can still hear those words in his voice, laced into the pauses in between the syllables, the sounds.  
The air is thick with tension between them, crackling with possibility and sweet with hope, and Eggsy wishes he could find the strength to get up and kiss Harry, find out how his lips taste, if they would part under his.  
“I see”, Harry says, slowly, carefully, as if he was thinking every word over twice, and it’s thrilling, the thought that the older man might be just as scared to ruin this as Eggsy is.

It’s that thought which does it for Eggsy, makes him take a deep breath and-  
“Does that mean that your feelings for me are unchanged?”, Harry asks, a second before Eggsy blurts out, “Can I kiss you?”  
He blushes and Harry’s lips slowly curl up into a smile, one that Eggsy hasn’t seen before. It’s gentle but bright, impossibly fond and a bit like Eggsy feels himself, like he isn’t sure if this is real, but desperately hopes so.

“Yes”, he says, and Eggsy’s heart skips not one, but two beats, makes up for them within a moment by starting to beat faster than it ever has before. It’s the worst of clichés, but it feels like a dream, flimsy and too perfect not to vanish with a too-quick movement. Eggsy still takes his chance.  
He gets up on trembling legs and weak knees and Harry watches him with his eyes still bright and warm and expectant, lets Eggsy sit down next to him, so close that their thighs are touching.

It’s not the closest they have ever been to each other, but it feels like it, feels like they are sharing air and every beat of their hearts; when Eggsy licks his lips, Harry’s eyes drop to watch his tongue wet them, just for a second.  
Eggsy can feel himself blush, from his cheeks all the way down to his chest, and it would be embarrassing if Harry wasn’t looking at him like this, like he wants him.

In the end, it’s not Eggsy who leans in, although he was the one who asked for a kiss; it’s Harry, who puts a hand on his shoulder, slides it up to cup the side of Eggsy’s throat, warm and gentle. He doesn’t look away although Harry’s gaze is making even more blood rush to his cheeks, can hardly bring himself to blink for fearing all this might be over when he opens his eyes again.

And so he kisses Harry, presses their lips together a bit too harshly at first, but he doesn’t even notice.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, and kisses like he looks at Eggsy, softly and with so much fondness it takes his breath away, kisses like he speaks, boldly and with determination, and just a little bit dirty.  
Eggsy kisses back the way he feels, passionately and with so much love it seems to tear his heart to pieces.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone on Tumblr asked for a bit of Harry's POV in this, and "a bit" turned into 4k words.  
> Set rather end of chapter 2.

Harry is fifty-four and Eggsy is just twenty-eight, young enough to be his son, and yet Harry has never felt less parental as he does when he catches sight of the smears of dark, angry red against his protégé’s neck. At first, he thinks of blood, because he is an agent, always an agent, but then of lipstick, because Roxanne, beautiful, clever Roxanne is walking right behind Eggsy.  
Her shoulders are slumped, her eyes slightly unfocussed and red and for a moment, Harry wants to hurt her. Not a slap, but something far more serious, something that would leave the same kind of smudges all over her flawless skin, blood-red.

But the moment passes quickly, leaves Harry boneless and tired; who is he to claim the right to have such thoughts?  
There was a time when he could have had Eggsy the way Roxanne has him now, when Eggsy came to offer his heart, but back then, Harry didn’t take it. Up to this day, he can’t say why, if he really didn’t want it or if he was just too afraid to admit so to himself.  
He would take it now, Harry knows that, all consequences be damned; he would kiss Eggsy like the boy deserves to be kissed, tell Eggsy he hasn’t got anything in the whole world that’s as precious to him as the other.

But it’s no use to linger on such thoughts, such pointless daydreams, so Harry shakes himself awake again, continues his way to Merlin’s office and tries not to think.

 

Harry is fifty-four and sends Eggsy, who is still twenty-six years younger than him, just twenty-eight, off to New Zealand. He tries to tell himself that it’s not a decision motivated by jealousy, but fails pathetically.

 

Harry is fifty-four and resists the temptation of opening one of the horrendous bottles of wine Eggsy started bringing whenever he comes over.  
It’s been more than two weeks since they last saw each other and Harry wishes he wouldn’t miss the boy so terribly.

 

Harry is fifty-four and Eggsy is twenty-eight, saunters into his office like he owns it; Harry loves him desperately.  
He’s still wearing a slightly torn suit, splattered with blood, a crack in his glasses and the most shit-eating grin Harry has ever seen on his lips.

“What’s up, boss?”, Eggsy greets, sprawls himself all over the chair in front of Harry’s desk. Harry has long since stopped reprimanding him for things like this. “Did ya miss me?”  
_Yes_ , Harry wants to say, _always_ , but he keeps his mouth shut. There is no reason to make this harder for either of them.  
So instead, he raises an eyebrow, even if he cannot get the smile to vanish from his lips. “I take it that you had a good time in New Zealand?”  
“Fuck yeah”, Eggsy replies, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wrinkled, ruined postcard, blood tinting the once-white beach it depicts red. He throws the postcard onto Harry’s desk. “Got ya somethin’. Sorry for all the blood…. I might have slept on top of it, too. Once or three times.”

The postcard is horrendous, two surfboards and an embracing couple next to the palm trees, and yet it makes Harry smile.  
“Thank you. I didn’t think you would have time to go shopping for souvenirs”, he remarks, and Eggsy just shrugs, shoots him another, blinding grin.  
“I always ‘ave time for that”, he says, and secretly, Harry is glad for it, already knows where he’ll put the postcard up.

 

Harry is fifty-four and he puts the postcard just beside the door, so he’ll see it every time he leaves the house.

 

Harry is fifty-four and Merlin is fifty-two, sits across him, a glass of whiskey in his hand.  
They have just had dinner, moussaka after Eleftheria’s mother’s recipe, a good bottle of Retsina and Harry is still trying to decide if he thinks his oldest friend’s long term relationship with a woman who lives 1484,63 miles away is sweet or just doomed.

Back when he met Eleftheria, or Elfie, as she used to want to be called, he had been smitten, but he never thought that it’d be Merlin who’d fall for the dark-haired daughter of Greece’s top exporter of pharmaceuticals. Not that he did back then, when Elfie was his competition for the title of Galahad, that had only happened later, sometime in the Nineties.

Which doesn’t mean that he can shut up about her now, apparently.  
“I don’t even know why I don’t just ask her”, Merlin says, although they have had this conversation at least a dozen times. But they are both a little tipsy, and for once it feels good to hear about someone who managed to find that one special person. “I’ve had the ring… how long have I had the ring?”  
“Two and a half years”, Harry helps the other out, takes a sip of his drink. “You should ask her. You know what she’ll say, don’t you?”

Merlin sighs; it’s rare that they have this, a quiet night just to talk, and for a second Harry is eternally grateful that they’re still both here, that they’ve made it this far. After all, not all of them did.  
“I do”, Merlin answers eventually, sounds convinced and yet unsure. “Maybe that is the problem.”

 

Harry is fifty-four and Merlin is fifty-two, slumped in his seat, a bottle of the world’s best whiskey clutched to his chest. They have long since forsaken the glasses.  
“I dunno when I was this drunk the last time”, the other slurs out, tries to get his eyes to focus on Harry, who just nods. “Feels good, old friend.”

“It does.” It’s hard to get his lips to form the words, his tongue to cooperate,his lungs to blow out enough air and not too much, but Harry manages, then reaches out and plucks the bottle from Merlin’s grasp. He’ll wake up with a hangover tomorrow anyway, he might as well enjoy it.  
“To us”, he says, takes a long drink and feels like a teenager again, sharing cheap wine with his friends under a bridge, thrilled by the danger of it all, by the scorn of his parents every time they set eyes on his blue dyed hair.

Merlin steals the bottle back while Harry still has it pressed against his lips, causes whiskey to spill all over his chin, down his throat. Without wanting to, Harry bursts out laughing, and Merlin follows, chokes on his own mouthful.  
The sight and sound of it only makes Harry laugh harder; in the end they’re both clutching to their armrests, unable to stop laughing.

It takes minutes until Harry can breathe again, sits back and accepts the offered bottle, takes a sip that burns on its way down his throat.  
In some ways, this is like a kiss, he thinks, wonders how many people have thought this before, if there are books, songs, poems about it. Wonders if he can maybe kiss Eggsy like this one day, passing the younger man a bottle and pretending that it’s nothing less than innocent.

“I’m in love with Eggsy”, he says before he knows it, blames the whiskey and the laughing and the lightheadedness that comes from it. Still, he can’t take it back and doesn’t want to do so either; it feels good to have the words spoken aloud for the first time.

“I know”, Merlin answers and kisses Harry back by taking the bottle and putting it to his lips again, taking a large gulp.

 

Harry is fifty-four and wakes up with the worst hangover he can remember.

 

Harry is fifty-four and there are blueprints in Athens’ HQ that they need. He could just get someone from the tech department to fetch them, but he doesn’t, instead he orders Eggsy to pack his bags and leave.  
It might be cruel and he knows it, but while he misses Eggsy, it’s good not to have him around too. Surely that will pass, or so Harry tells himself, but right now, every look at the other’s face is making his heart clench painfully, reminds him of what could have been. What he turned down.

So he watches Eggsy step into the plane, even gives him a little wave when the boy raises his hand to tell him goodbye without words, then walks back to his office. He could turn on the feed from Eggsy’s glasses, watch his dear, darling boy flick through magazines, play some game that Harry doesn’t understand on his phone, but he resists the temptation.  
In the end, he knows it, it would hurt more than it would help him with missing Eggsy.

 

Harry is fifty-four and Eggsy is twenty-eight, sends him a picture of the Acropolis. And he is weak, always weak when it comes to Eggsy, texts back, _Enjoying yourself?_  
sure thing boss this is great omfg, Eggsy texts back just a second later, and Harry desperately wishes he didn’t hear the boy’s voice in his head, excited and sweet.  
_Glad to hear that._

It’s strange, because Harry hopes Eggsy will text back as soon as possible and at the same time fears it; every word the other writes, every picture he sends makes him wish he was there with Eggsy, showing him the wonders of the city, explaining its history. Just like he did when he sent the boy off to Bursa.  
The three dots which indicate Eggsy is typing appear on his screen, vanish and show up again, blink, blink, blink without any message being sent.  
Harry’s heart seems to beat with the same rhythm.

In the end, Eggsy doesn’t reply at all.

 

Harry is fifty-four and doesn’t look at the blood-splattered postcard next to the door when he leaves the house the next morning.

 

Harry is fifty-four and Eggsy is twenty-eight, returns from his mission, just peeking in to say hello in passing, a smile ready on his lips as always.  
“Just wanted to check on ya, old man”, he greets, manages to make the words sound like a term of endearment although it was surely only meant to tease. Still, Harry smiles, because although his heart aches with lost chances and the mirth in Eggsy’s eyes, he can’t help but feel glad to have the boy back. Back here, back in London and HQ, back in that house just a few streets away. Back where he is safe.

It’s a feeling he knows too well already, the constant worry that an agent might not return from whatever mission he was sent on; Harry feels it for all his agents (because they are his now, all of them), but it’s worse when it comes to Eggsy. Of course it is.  
“I take it the mission went well”, he answers, and Eggsy scoffs, leaned against the doorframe.

“If ya can even call that a mission. Seriously, blueprints?”  
“Someone had to fetch them”, Harry answers easily. He doesn’t even have to lie, and that makes it so much easier.  
On the tip of his tongue is an invitation, the question if Eggsy wants to come over for dinner, but then Eggsy shrugs, says, “Well, I guess. Anyway, tell Merlin that ‘is girl sent somethin’ back, I’ve put it on ‘is desk. And now I’ve gotta catch up with Rox, we’re going to grab dinner. See ya ‘round!”

Eggsy grings brightly and Harry swallows his invitation back down again, feeling like he will choke on it any second.

 

Harry is fifty-four when he opens one of the bottles of cheap wine Eggsy sometimes brings over, a Merlot that Harry knows his taste buds will revolt against. He tries not to feel too pathetic.

 

Harry is fifty-four and Merlin is fifty-two, looks at him strangely when he tells him he wants to send Eggsy on the next mission, whatever that might be.  
“Are you sure about that?”, the other asks and doesn’t even try to keep the concern out of his voice. If it’s for him or for Eggsy, Harry cannot say.  
“Maybe you should talk to the boy, he’s hardly been home these last weeks and I think we both know why. This isn’t a good way of dealing with your feelings.”

Merlin means well and Harry knows it – he even knows that the other is right – but he just doesn’t care. This will be the last mission, he promises himself, the very last, but right now, he just can’t stand the thought of seeing Eggsy and Roxanne together, can’t bear another mark on the boy’s throat.  
“Just send me the files so I can brief him”, Harry says, and he must sound as tired as he feels because Merlin doesn’t even try to protest this time.

“Of course”, the other answers, his voice all business but his eyes warm. “Elfie says hi, by the way.”  
“Thank you”, Harry answers, smiles; he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to pretend, that he’s still able to be genuinely happy for his friend’s happiness. “Ask her, Merlin. She’ll say yes.”

 

Harry is fifty-four and Eggsy is twenty-eight; although he wouldn’t have to, Harry can’t stop himself from bringing the boy a cup of coffee – black, but with three sugars - when he walks into his office. It’s still strange to see Eggsy there, surrounded by oak and heavy drapes, but Harry likes the contrast, his cocky, bright darling boy and all of Kingsman’s history around him.

He sets down one of the two cups he is carrying and Eggsy smiles like Harry means the world, and for a few moments, Harry lets himself believe he does.  
“Cheers, mate”, Eggsy greets him and takes a bit gulp of the coffee that has to be far too hot to drink. “What’s up?”  
For a moment, Harry wishes he had better news to give, but what has been done is done, and it’s probably better for both of them. So Harry can get over this ridiculous infatuation he has with the boy who once wanted to give him his heart and they can go back to easy evening spent together, to hours spent in the shooting range, to cups of tea in Harry’s office.

“I need you on a mission”, he says, and watches Eggsy’s face fall, although it is quickly back to the collected façade every Kingsman should wear. It hurts more than Harry thought it would.

 

Harry is fifty-four and Eggsy is twenty-eight, leaves with Gawain to Carlow, Ireland.  
Half of Harry misses him the second he is out the door, the other half is glad that he’s gone.

 

Harry is fifty-four and he leaves the office early, just before six and goes home.  
It’s been a long, long time since he had a whole evening to himself, so he takes his time, cooks dinner and sets the table. He opens a bottle of wine he has been keeping for years and years, but when he sits down, it’s not like it should be.

There is no one sitting in front of him, no bright smile or easy laughter filling the room; Eggsy isn’t there and Harry feels his absence like a physical blow.

 

Harry is fifty-four and throws his dinner into the trash, untouched.

 

Harry is fifty-four and Gawain is forty-seven, says, “Seriously, Harry, bring the boy home.”  
“Galahad, you mean?” Harry knows exactly who the other means, knows that Eggsy and Albert have both taken a liking to the other, but he’s stalling, trying to think up a lie that will sound believable enough to convince a man he has known for over twenty years.  
“Yeah. Of course.” Albert is looking at him like he’s trying to figure something out, like he just needs one last piece to complete this puzzle, and Harry doesn’t like it the least bit.  
“I won’t. He’s in the middle of a mission, I can’t just let him come back, no matter how boring the target is.”

It makes perfect sense in Harry’s head, and yet Albert doesn’t look convinced at all, leans forward slightly as if to tell Harry a secret. “I don’t know what he has done, and I’m sure it was something horrible indeed, but he’s suffered enough. Eggsy’s a good kid and a damned fine agent and he misses home.”  
Albert takes a breath, looks unsure if to continue, but then adds, “He misses you.”

The words sting, because they can’t be true ( _he misses Roxy_ , his mind whispers) and Harry brushes them away with a gesture of his hand, unwilling to let himself be borne down by them.  
“Nonsense”, he says and yet feels guilty, because there is someone Eggsy does miss, and someone Harry won’t allow him to see.  
And really, how can he claim to care for the boy if he does everything to keep him from being happy?

 

Harry is fifty-four and smiles at Eggsy when the other comes back, Roxy at his side. It hurts, but at the same time, it feels good, because Eggsy is so precious to him and if Roxy makes him happy, then that should be enough.

 

Harry is fifty-four and Merlin has just turned fifty-three when he comes over for dinner. He brings wine that is actually drinkable and his iPad, calls Eleftheria on Skype so she can join them.  
She looks as beautiful as always, almost radiant when she waves at Harry.  
“Hello, handsome”, she greets, smiles and Harry can’t help but chuckle, wave back.

“Hello, gorgeous”, he answers, “How are you?”  
“Great, now that I’ve got my two favourite men with me”, Elfie answers, sits back on her chair again. She must still be at work, because there are cables and computers all around her, but there is a plate of microwavable food in front of her, still steaming.  
“Glad to hear that I am still one of them”, Harry answers; it’s what Elfie used to call them both during training. “But what, my dear, is it that you’re eating?”

“I wish I knew”, Elfie answers, laughs, a sound as bright and sweet as a bell. “I found it in the freezer, but I don’t even know who left it there. Maybe Kalliope, she’s got a thing for food like this.”  
“She still can’t cook”, Merlin calls from the kitchen, where he is opening the bottle of wine. “The moussaka recipe I gave you? I tried Elfie’s last time I was in Athens and it tasted like soggy shoesoles.”  
“Hey!” Elfie is still laughing, but tries her best to look offended and Harry remembers how much he missed her. “…I have to admit that we ordered take out later, though. It was pretty bad.”

Harry, of course, knows that already, because he got a picture Merlin sent him, eating Bami Goreng out of cardboard boxes, but he smiles anyway, a bright, genuine smile.  
“You have to come here the next time, then, and let me cook for you. It’s been far too long since I saw your pretty face.”  
“Why don’t you ever talk to me like that, Agapi mou”, Elfie asks Merlin, who has just entered the room again; it makes Harry’s heart swell with joy when he sees his best friend’s eyes light up at the term of endearment, the sight of the woman he has loved for decades on the screen.  
“Well, kukla, I don’t have to win you over anymore, do I?”, Merlin responds, sets down two glasses of rich, red wine.

Harry raises his and the others do the same, even if Eleftheria’s glass is an old, chipped mug. Merlin and Harry clink their glasses, Elfie pretends to, then answers, “It’s a pity, but you’re right about that.”

 

Harry is fifty-four, Merlin and Eleftheria are fifty-two and they get so drunk on wine and whiskey and whatever it is in Elfie’s cup that Harry’s head is swimming when he gets up, presses a kiss to the iPad screen to say goodnight to Elfie. It makes Merlin chuckle and Harry just knows that he won’t ever hear the end of this.

When they have ended the call after four hours and thirteen minutes, he turns to Merlin, says, “Ask her. I mean it.”

 

Harry is fifty-four and Merlin is fifty-two; they both wake up with headaches and a dry mouth, stumble and curse until they have a cup of tea in their hands and too much aspirin in their stomach.  
“We shouldn’t ever do this again”, Merlin groans, holds the cup against his head as if he could warm the pain away. “The last time was bad enough.”  
“Agreed”, Harry answers and wonders if this was what getting shot in the head felt like.

“Dinner again next week?”, Merlin asks, “I’ll cook.”  
Nodding hurts his head, but Harry does it anyway. “I’ll bring the wine.”

 

Harry is fifty-four and Merlin is fifty-two, holds up a bottle of wine Harry has no memory of opening.  
It's a Chardonnay, but in a cheap, plastic bottle, a screw off cap, and while Harry cannot remember how it tasted he can remember Eggsy’s face when he handed it over, anticipation and amusement written all across it.  
“What’s that?”, Merlin asks, an eyebrow raised.  
“A gift.”  
Harry doesn’t say out loud who it was from, but Merlin still seems to know; his eyes go a bit softer.  
“You’re in too deep”, the other says, and Harry just sighs.

 

Harry is fifty-four and decides to take a day off work for the first time in years.

 

Harry is fifty-four and the door rings just after he has put his dishes into the sink. He doesn’t expect any visitors, so he doesn’t know what to expect when he opens, a neighbour, an assassin, an emergency; it takes him a long time to answer.  
What he doesn't expect is to find Eggsy on his doorstep, asking if he can come in with a strained smile, a bottle of wine in his hand.

His hand stills on the doorknob; half of his body wants to shut the door again, half of it wants to reach out and pull Eggsy close.  
Harry has missed him so much.

“Of course”, he answers, steps aside and lets Eggsy inside. His heart clenches painfully, but it’s a soft, quiet kind of ache, not the kind he feels when he sees the boy with Roxanne, but one that is easier to bear. One that Harry thinks he could live with.  
Without Harry’s command, his feet take him to the living room and Eggsy follows, stands there, unsure what to do and with his bottle of cheap, horrible wine still in his hand.

It doesn’t hit him like lightening, it doesn’t wash over him like the pacific condensed into a single wave; it’s just a thought that appears in his mind, bittersweet and beautiful in its sadness.  
Eggsy might be the one he was waiting for his entire life.

The smile appears on his lips without Harry noticing it, he can’t take it back anymore, though, just enjoys its presence for another few moments.  
“It’s good to see you”, he says, and he means it.

 

Harry is fifty-four and Eggsy is twenty-eight and his heart is heavy and yet lighter, because he has spilled his secrets, because it’s all out in the open now, and because he will hate to see Eggsy’s expression change now.  
And it does change, eyes widening and mouth going slack with surprise; it only lasts a second, too short for Harry to read it.

But then Eggsy leans forward, forward and forward until he is almost falling off the sofa he is sitting on, reaches out but doesn’t touch Harry, even if it would just be another inch he would have to go.  
Harry’s mind is blank, his heart beating too fast to be considered healthy; he doesn’t know just what he is hoping will happen, but knows that he desperately wishes Eggsy would touch him.

“I never was with Roxy”, Eggsy says and his voice is breathless and sounding impossibly important, every word dripping with hope. “I never was.”

 

 

  _Oh._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait - uni was kicking my arse the last month so this took forever.  
> I'll try to be a bit quicker the next time though!

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, but not lying next to him when Eggsy wakes up, even if Eggsy hoped for it. Then again, he is looking up at the ceiling of the guest room, which he has gotten to know so well in the past years.  
It had felt like the right thing to do the evening before, retiring to separate rooms after sharing kiss after kiss, after Eggsy had almost fallen asleep in the other’s arms, his face pillowed on Harry’s shoulder. Why, he can’t really say anymore, but like so many things – like global warming and international terrorist attacks and the boys that sometimes tease Daisy at the park until his sister is crying – it doesn’t seem to matter.

While nothing in the world seemed to have changed after Eggsy had realised he was in love, everything has changed now, because Harry is in love. With him.

He needs a few moments to just find back to this, to start believing this is real again, and he takes them, luxuriates in the comfortable warmth of his bed, half nuzzles the pillow, pulls the blankets a little tighter. They smell like Harry, the tartness of his aftershave, the faint smell of bergamot, and the thought makes Eggsy smile, hiding the faint curl of his lips in the pillow as if embarrassed.

Another two, three deep breath, then he finally pushes them off, gets up, suddenly in a hurry. He’s not nervous, but giddy with excitement, brushes his teeth with more enthusiasm than ever before, even hums one of Daisy’s Disney tunes under the shower.  
There is no reason, no time to fuss with his hair, so Eggsy doesn’t, ignores the faint dusting of stubble on his cheeks and jaw as well as the imprint of his pillow on his cheek. Harry has seen him bleeding and crying and screaming in pain, surely he won’t mind this.

Eggsy never pulled back the curtains in the guest room, so he’s almost startled at how bright the world looks when he opens the door into the hallway, soft, warm light filtering in through the windows and painting strange patterns on the floor. It fits so well that Eggsy isn’t sure how he could ever have expected something else.

On bare feet, he walks down the stairs, faintly smelling bacon and tea; the smell is a memory so dear to him it’s enough to make Eggsy smile again, his heart picking up its pace when he peeks into the kitchen.  
Harry is standing with his back to him, still in his ridiculous silk pyjamas, the familiar apron tied around his waist, his hair a mess. He looks like he just woke up, like his thoughts were the same as Eggsy’s – there is no need for them to be anything but themselves, not now and most likely not ever again.

Since the other doesn’t notice him, Eggsy just watches, thinks he might notice a slight spring in Harry’s step that hasn’t been there before, every tiny motion looking like it has purpose, filled with new-found energy.  
It’s a similar feeling to watching Harry fight for the first time, back in the Black Prince; Eggsy feels awed, only that this time, it’s because all this is because of him.

Maybe he makes a sound, Eggsy isn’t sure, but Harry turns around without warning, spatula in his hand and a smile on his lips that gets larger by the second when their eyes meet; Eggsy can feel its counterpart pulling on the corners of his lips.  
Neither of them moves, and for a moment, the world is perfect.

“Good morning”, Harry eventually says, his voice is soft and warm and Eggsy can’t help but think of kisses and of how much he would like to kiss the other again. And again.  
“Hi”, he answers, because everything longer than one syllable sounds impossible to pronounce when he is having such problems breathing.  
“Did you sleep well?”

Almost, just almost Eggsy answers that he would have slept better with Harry there, but he stops himself before the words leave his lips, instead nods, says, “You?”  
“Better than I have in months”, Harry replies, turns around for a second to take the pan from the stove, preventing the eggs to burn.  
“Months?”. Eggsy echoes, finally takes one, two, three steps into the room, not touching the other but close enough to do so if he wanted to.

“Yes.” The word is uttered as if it was nothing important, just an answer to a question, when it might mean the world. Might mean that they could have had this for months by now, not just for a few, precious hours.

Their food is getting cold and Eggsy couldn’t care less, leans up with a beating heart and trembling hands, kisses Harry softly, sweetly.  
His lips taste like toothpaste and sugar, feel warm and soft under Eggsy’s, part easily to let him in. Everything still feels like a dream, especially when Harry kisses back slowly; the spatula clutters to the counter, forgotten, when Harry raises his hand so he can cup Eggsy’s face.

His own hands are fluttering between himself and Harry, finally settling on the other’s hips, not pulling him in, just grounding himself. They’ll have time for all the pulling and pushing and finding out about what makes the other tick later; it’s a thought that makes Eggsy’s heart almost burst with joy.  
They have all the time they need now.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, loads his plate with food, just like he always does. And yet, it feels different, because his heart is beating fast but at a different rhythm than it used to when Harry was this close; Eggsy likes to think it’s the same Harry’s heart beats with too.

“Thanks”, he mumbles about his first bite of scrambled eggs, smiles up at Harry and doesn’t take his eyes off the older man until he has sat down across of him.  
There is still a hint of nervousness when he extends his leg to hook it around Harry’s, just enjoying the touch, but the other just looks up from his plate, smiles brightly. Brings his second leg closer to trap Eggsy’s between his.  
It makes Eggsy grin so wide it feels like his face is about to spilt in two.  
“So, do we ‘ave to go to work today?”, he asks, hopes very much that Harry will say no. But the other just raises an eyebrow, as if Eggsy just asked the most ludicrous question of all.

“Well, of course”, Harry says, and Eggsy definitely does not pout at all.  
“Aw, and I thought I’d be gettin’ some perks outta shagging the boss”, he answers, takes another bite of his scrambled eggs, which taste like heaven, fluffy and creamy and just the way Eggsy loves them.  
“Strictly speaking, you aren’t even doing that.”  
Harry’s voice is dry, but amused, a twinkle in his eyes and a smile still on his lips; Eggsy feels just a hint of a blush on spreading out on his cheeks, because he’s right, of course. Even if Eggsy very much hopes that they will change that soon.  
“But I might be? I mean- yeah.”

He is definitely blushing now; Harry chuckles, squeezes Eggsy’s leg between his own.  
“I hoped so, yes.” His eyes are warm and happy, and Eggsy loves him more than words can say. Loves him so much that he ignores the most delicious scrambled eggs he had for months and gets up, leans across the table to kiss Harry, just so stops himself from licking into the other’s mouth.  
Harry smiles against his lips, kisses back until Eggsy pulls away, distracted by the hard edge of the table digging into his hip.

“We’re gonna take it slow?”, Eggsy asks and Harry nods, his lips tinted pink; Eggsy wants to kiss him again. “But not too slow.”  
“No”, Harry says, and reaches out to take Eggsy’s hand in his. “Definitely not.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, holds the door of the taxi open for Eggsy to climb out; if it makes him smile so wide he has to bite his lips to stop. It’s such a small thing and yet it feels so important, because this is new and exciting and it’s everything they could become.  
“To the shop, please”, Harry says when he sits down next to Eggsy, tall and warm and still alive. Still with him.

It's all Eggsy can do not to reach out and link their hands like a teenage girl with her first boyfriend. But he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to touch the other here, in public, if they have to be professionals, colleagues around everyone else.  
Eggsy doesn’t even want to think about how hard it would be to keep this a secret from Roxy.

“Do I hafta pretend you’re still me boss?”, Eggsy blurts out just as soon as the driver has started the car, and Harry turns around to look at him, obviously amused.  
“I am your boss”, he replies, and Eggsy rolls his eyes because he is not the kind of gentleman Harry is, can indulge in these simple pleasures.  
“That’s not what I mean and ya know it”, he answers and scoots just a tiny bit closer, just enough that their knees are touching. “I mean, do I hafta pretend that you’re _just_ me boss.”

“Why ever would you have to do that?”  
“Well. Fraternisation or somethin’? Protocols about agents not bein’ supposed to sleep with their Arthurs?” Surely there must be something about there somewhere; there are rules about everything when it comes to Kingsman.  
“Oh Eggsy”, Harry sighs, but there is an amused twinkle in his eyes. “And I thought I taught you better. A gentleman never conceals his affections.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, kisses him in the middle of HQ’s hallways. It feels a bit like proving a point.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Roxy is twenty-nine, shoves a fork full of noodles into her mouth while saying, “So, you fucked our boss?”  
It takes all of Eggsy’s strength not to spit extra spicy curry all over his expensive desk. Instead, like a gentleman, he swallows, says, “Nah. We just- dunno, kissed? It sounds so fuckin’ dumb, I know, but we just kissed. Hugged, I guess. I didn’t even sleep in ‘is bed, how fuckin’ lame am I?”

Up until this point, Eggsy didn’t even think about it, didn’t even care – it wouldn’t have felt right to just jump into bed with Harry, not right away, not after all this time. And yet, when he looks back, it’s strange, because he’s never had any qualms about that before.  
“Very lame”, Roxy answers and confirms Eggsy’s fears. “Love has turned you into one of those Fifties girls who thought holding hands was exciting.”  
“Oh fuck you”, Eggsy answers, but there is no real anger to it. Roxy is right to some extent – holding hands with Harry does sound exciting.

“Fuck, does that mean I need to buy a new vibrator now that you’re not around to take care of that anymore?”, Roxy says and keeps a calm face while Eggsy chokes on his curry.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty four, smiles at him when he walks through the door. He has never said goodbye to Harry before when he left the office, and yet it feels like the right thing to do.  
“I’ll be off then”, Eggsy says, standing in front of Harry’s desk, his hands shoved into his pockets in a very ungentlemanly fashion. “And I guess I’ll see ya…later? Around?”

It must be clear that he is out of his depth, because Harry laughs softly, sets down his pen. He looks relaxed, his face open and happy and Eggsy, God, Eggsy _loves_ him.  
“I definitely hope so”, Harry replies, “In fact, I wanted to ask you if you had any time this Wednesday. To have dinner with me.”  
They have spent the last night kissing and touching and talking, and yet Eggsy’s heart skips a beat at the words, when he grins at Harry. “What, are ya askin’ me out on a date?”

Of course he knows what this is, has to be, but Eggsy still wants, needs to hear it, and Harry, it seems, doesn’t have any problems with giving him that.  
“Absolutely”, the other replies and Eggsy feels his grin widening. “Would eight be alright? I’ll send a car.”

“Yes”, Eggsy answers, without even thinking, and knowing that his reply wouldn’t change if he had taken a year to consider it. “Yes, of course.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and his mum doesn’t even ask where he has spent the night, just smiles and for a second, Eggsy considers telling her.  
He doesn’t though, not because he thinks she wouldn’t be happy for him, but because right now, Harry only belongs to him. Their relationship belongs to him, and he wants to keep it that way, even if only for a little longer.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and he spends an hour on fixing his hair so it will look perfect before he decides to fuck it. There are still three strands of hair which don’t want to stay where they should and Eggsy could take another hour and try to make them stick, but he can’t, won’t, doesn’t want to. Because in the end, it’s not about his hair, not about the cufflinks he’ll wear, his suit; it’s about Harry and about him, about them.

His mother is out with a couple of her friends, Daisy is at her sitter’s place, which is good, because it means Eggsy doesn’t have to lie about where he is going, even if it wouldn’t be a complete lie. After all, Harry is his boss, will stay that; the only difference is that over the past few days it has gotten rather clear that Harry is so much more than that. Wants to be more than that, too.  
The thought makes Eggsy smile, the same giddiness rising in his throat that has been his companion for the last couple of days.

They have hardly seen each other outside of HQ, just went to have lunch once, two days ago, but there have been touches, there have been kisses and looks, promises, both spoken out-loud and wordless, that this will last.  
Promises of today too, tonight – Harry wouldn’t tell him just where they’ll go, but Eggsy is fairly certain that he’ll like it anyway. The other knows him well enough by now to pick out the right place.

Maybe, Eggsy thinks to himself while he buttons his shirt, fixes his cufflinks, they’ll go back to that Italian restaurant, Orsini, the one Harry could tell so many stories about. He’d like that, because he remembers how deliriously happy he had left the place, because he remembers Harry looking at him fondly over the table, but then again, something new might be better.  
A restaurant that can be theirs, their place to tell stories about, something to remember in twenty years.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight, gets in the cab that waits for him, dressed to the nines in a dark navy suit and a crisp white shirt; while he’ll never look like he was born to wear a suit, like Harry does, he does clean up rather nicely, if he dares say so himself.  
His stomach is in knots, and it’s ridiculous, because they’ve done this before – dinner, drinks, the whole program – and because Eggsy has no reason to expect Harry to change his mind about this, and yet his heart is racing, his palms sweating. Because it’s different anyway, because it feels official.

The car takes him through streets he’s familiar with, but it takes Eggsy several minutes until he realises why: They’re close to the shop, in fact pass it a few minutes later.

It's not what Eggsy imagined (not what he hoped for either, if he is honest with himself, if he could have chosen, they would have gone to some place romantic, somewhere sweet and quiet, with  
candles on every table and a violinist playing Frank Sinatra tunes) but he still gets out of the car without hesitation when the driver pulls over.  
They're only a few streets away from Savile Road, at a hotel Eggsy passed a couple of times before, but never thought of going inside. It looks posh enough, he supposes, but Eggsy still turns around to look at the driver, unsure if they’re at the right place after all.

“That it?”, he asks, jerks his head in the general direction of the hotel.  
“Yeah. Or at least that’s where I was supposed to take you.” The driver looks vaguely annoyed, so Eggsy doesn’t ask again, just gets out of the car, makes sure his suit isn’t wrinkled.  
Surely, it can’t be too hard to find the restaurant Harry is waiting in.

While the hotel wasn’t too imposing from the outside, it’s beautiful inside, the lobby elegant and modern; it leaves Eggsy gaping for a moment or two. He definitely wouldn’t mind this to become their special place.  
Since there are no signs, Eggsy walks over to the reception and puts on his most charming, dazzling smile, aims it directly at the pretty girl behind the counter. She’s got fiery red hair and a small gap between her front teeth, blushes when she catches Eggsy’s eye.

“How can I help you?”, she asks; Eggsy leans forward just a little bit, leans a bit against the counter, decides to play up the posh accent a bit. It seems fitting in a place like this.  
“I appear to have lost my way”, he answers, “I think you have a restaurant around here?”  
“Oh yes!” She seems a bit too excited that she can help, but it’s sweet somehow, the way her face lights up. “Do you mean the Tsukiji or Alyn Williams?”  
Eggsy has no actual idea what a Tsukiji is, and he doesn’t know what he means either, so he goes with his first instinct, hopes that he knows Harry well enough to guess where he’ll find him.

“The Alyn Williams. Sorry, I should have said so in the first place.”  
“Oh, that’s perfectly alright”, the girl answers, gestures to the right. “Just over there, follow the hallway and then turn to the left. You can’t miss it.”  
“Thanks a lot”, Eggsy says, gives the girl a last smile, then turns around and walks off, his heart beating far too fast, far too hard.

She was right, it turns out, because the restaurant is really impossible to miss, just as elegant as everything in this hotel seems to be. It looks like a place Harry would take him to.  
“I’m looking for a Harry Hart, he has a reservation here”, he tells another beautiful girl who waits to seat him, watches her flick through a leather bound ledger and hopes he is right. It would be all kinds of unpleasant to find out that Harry is waiting for him in the Tsu-place after all. Not to mention that he would be very, very late for their date too.

But after just a few moments, she looks up, a polite smile on her lips that reminds him a little bit of Roxy, says, “If you would just follow me…”  
So Eggsy does, follows her through a crowd of beautiful, well-dressed people, trying to find Harry in between them, _his_ beautiful, well-dressed Harry, with his warm, brown eyes and his amused smiles, his large, gentle hands.

They have seen each other just yesterday and yet, Eggsy misses the other, feels like he’s always missing him when they’re not sitting right beside each other.

But Harry is nowhere to be seen, although Eggsy looks around as much as he can without looking like an idiot, to the point where he starts to worry if Harry hasn’t arrived yet. Because Harry being late has to have a reason, and reasons usually means nothing good in their line of work.  
By the time Eggsy is about to freak, the girl in front of him is turning sharply to the right, takes him to something that vaguely reminds Eggsy of a glass cage at the side of the room, and all of a sudden, Eggsy’s heart stops.  
Because there’s Harry, seated at a far too long table for just the two of them, but still looking perfectly at ease, his shoulders broad in his dark suit, his hair perfectly coiffed.

He doesn’t see him, not yet, but that’s alright with Eggsy, who can’t tear his eyes away, now that he knows he is allowed to look. There is something special about being able to observe Harry when he doesn’t know he’s being watched, the way he holds himself, how his eyes skim the room, looking for him, or at least that is what Eggsy hopes he is doing.  
Harry is different than when they’re together, and Eggsy can’t really pinpoint why, just knows it.

Eggsy is just a couple of steps away from the door when their eyes meet through the glass, and within a moment, everything changes. Harry’s eyes go star-bright, his lips curling up into the same smile Eggsy feels spreading on his own face; at the same time, Eggsy feels the knots in his stomach unclench, his heart skip a beat nonetheless.  
Because there is no need to be nervous, but every reason to be excited.

The girl opens the door to let him in, and Harry rises, but doesn’t move, just looks at Eggsy approaching.  
“Hi”, Eggsy greets when he is standing directly in front of the table, not sure if to kiss Harry, to shake his hand, to just sit down. But like always, Harry knows just what to do, grasping Eggsy’s hand, that is half raised, brings it to his lips, just like the blokes in the movies always do, and although he is twenty-eight years old, Eggsy blushes slightly, can’t stop smiling.  
“Well, you’re charmin’ today, aren’t ya?”

“I am _always_ charming”, Harry corrects with a teasing tone, his smile tinting his voice sweet and gentle.  
“You’re right about that.” Eggsy watches Harry sit down and so Eggsy does the same thing, marvels at the surroundings – everything around them is polished wood and glass, the mere thought of what a dinner here has to cost makes Eggsy dizzy. “This place is fuckin’ gorgeous, by the way. Even if ya could’ve taken me out to grab a burger at McDonald’s and I would’ve been happy.”  
The comment makes Harry smile before he reaches out and places his hand on the table, waits for Eggsy to place his on top of it.  
His fingers are warm and just slightly calloused and Eggsy runs his fingertips over the other’s wrist, hoping that Harry’s pulse really goes as fast as he thinks it does.

“I’m glad you like it”, Harry replies just a moment later, and his voice is a little softer now, a little melancholic. “I took your father here after it was clear he would be one of the last two candidates.”  
The words make Eggsy freeze in mid-motion, head spinning. He doesn’t have a good memory of his father, not anymore – there are fragments, of course, the smell of coffee and the feeling of someone picking him up and tucking him into bed, the soft whispers of his parents after they thought he had fallen asleep – so having something concrete, a place and a smell and a name, feels like a gift.  
“Really?”, he asks, leans forward ever so slightly. “Me dad?”

Harry smiles; he must have expected his reaction. “Yes. Although I have to admit that back then, it looked fairly different to now. Less, as you would say, posh.”  
“Still. Thanks. That’s…” Eggsy pauses, searches for a word that most likely doesn’t exist, until he realises something else that seems more important all of a sudden. “What do ya mean, ya took me dad ‘ere? Didn’t ya take him back home and cooked for him an’ all? Y’know, like with me.”  
“No. In fact, that’s not common practice at all. You were rather special in that regard.”  
There is no way in hell those words could not make Eggsy smile, so he doesn’t even try to conceal it, instead grins at Harry a little teasingly. “Was I now?”  
“Always.”

  
Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry reaches over the table, brushes the few strands he couldn’t tame out of his eyes, lets his fingers linger just a little longer than necessary.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, presses his knee against Eggsy’s after he has climbed into the car next to him. They have hardly touched in the last two hours, apart from occasional brushes of their fingers, Harry’s hand on his for a few moments in between two courses, so this is enough to make Eggsy _want_.  
Want Harry’s hands on his skin, his fingers around his wrists and intertwined with his own, Harry’s lips against his neck.

“Would it be moving too fast if I asked you to come back to my place for a glass of wine?”, Harry asks, and his voice is low and quiet, slightly amused and maybe a little bit hopeful. Eggsy wants him to be hopeful, wants him to care as much as he does; he tears his gaze away from their knees, still pressed together and finds Harry watching him with warm, brown eyes and half a smile on his lips.  
“Nah, that would be just fine”, Eggsy answers, can’t stop himself from grinning.  
“That’s perfect, seeing that I still have a bottle of absolutely atrocious Chardonnay in my fridge.”

If they mean the same thing with a glass of wine, Eggsy doesn’t know – they still belong to different worlds, at least to some extent – but he knows he’d be happy with either result. More kissing, sharing a bottle of horrible wine Eggsy should never have bought, or ending up in Harry’s bed, learning the taste of the other’s skin.

“Sounds like ya know my tastes too well”, Eggsy answers and butts against Harry’s shoulder lightly, bites back a chuckle. “But only if it’s really, really bad.”  
“The worst”, the other promises, and Eggsy reaches out, takes Harry’s hand in his.

It turns out that holding hands is just as exciting as he thought it would be.

They spend the rest of the short drive to Harry’s house without words, without glances but for Eggsy at least, they’re not needed. He uses the time he has to memorise the feeling of Harry’s hand in his, the weight and the warmth of it, the slight callouses on the older man’s fingertips, which have to come from years and years of handling a gun, a knife, an umbrella.  
For some reason, it’s a soothing thought. That Harry has lived through so many years of this and is still next to him, warm and alive and breathing.

The car stops, and Harry thanks the driver, but keeps their hands linked for another few moments, only untangles their fingers when he has to, then gets out of the car with more grace than any man should possess. Eggsy takes a deep breath, wants to do the same, but before he has touched the handle, Harry has pulled the door open.  
It’s a move right out of a romcom, and Eggsy shouldn’t like it and yet can’t contain his smile when he slides from his seat.  
“Thanks”, he mutters, hyperaware that they are standing far too close to each other, Harry’s hand still on the door and Eggsy right in front of him. He can make out the lines on the other’s handsome face, the twinkle in his eyes, and it’s breath-taking enough that Eggsy forgets he is allowed to kiss Harry now.

The other obviously doesn’t, leans down and presses their lips together in the sweetest kiss, just a touch and somehow still everything Eggsy was hoping for.  
“Let’s go inside”, Harry mutters once they have parted, not quite against Eggsy’s lips but still close enough that he can feel Harry’s breath, the warmth of his skin.  
“Yeah… yeah, good idea”, Eggsy answers, just as quietly as Harry, licks his lips and doesn’t pull away for another few moments, because it feels too good, just being close to Harry, being allowed here.

But it’s him who steps back in the end, leaving Harry looking just the slightest bit out of breath before he composes himself again, closes the car door. Although it’s probably not the gentlemanly thing to do, Eggsy can’t help but feel a little bit smug.  
“C’mon, old man, I haven’t got all day”, he calls over his shoulder as he turns away, hears Harry huff in mock exasperation; he follows, still, passes Eggsy and unlocks the door and holds it open.

“You’re a horrible sap, do ya know that?”, Eggsy asks, comes to halt directly in front of the older man and raises an eyebrow.  
“Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying it.”  
“’m not.” Leaning up, he kisses Harry, first just sweetly, then bites at the other’s lips until he parts them, lets Eggsy lick into his mouth. One hand travels up Harry’s chest, over his neck to rest on his cheek, pulling him just a little closer, because no matter how close they get, it never seems enough.

The kiss continues for far longer than would be proper, leaves them both too breathless to still be considered proper and Eggsy pulls back, a smirk on his lips.  
“I like it a lot, in fact. Ya sap.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, winces after he has taken the smallest possible sip of the Chardonnay he has promised Eggsy.  
“This is absolutely vile”, he decides, puts his glass down with just a little too much force, and Eggsy can’t help but chuckle, take a big, very ungentlemanly gulp from his own wine.  
Harry is right, it is absolutely rank, but Eggsy is not about to tell the other that, instead shrugs, pretends to enjoy the sour taste.  
“Dunno what you’re on about. I mean, it’s none o’ your fancy stuff, but it ain’t bad.”

Harry takes a long look at him, then says, “You’re not good enough a liar to pull this one off.”  
“Aw, damn.” Eggsy laughs, downs the rest of the wine anyway, but doesn’t try to suppress the flinch when his taste buds take in the sourness. “An’ I was so proud of meself there for a sec.”  
“That you should be. Even if more of the fact that you can by now distinguish vinegar from wine.”  
“Sap.”

They sit on the couch in silence for a few moments, a pleasant one, and Eggsy takes another sip of wine, this time from Harry’s glass, not because he likes it, but because there is a question he wanted to ask for days now. Since Harry had said, _You must forgive an old man his infatuations_ , with his voice soft and sad.  
“So…”, he starts, nervous again for the first time since he set eyes on Harry. The other seems to notice, because he turns a little more towards Eggsy, looks at him almost concerned. “It’s probably gonna sound dumb as fuck, but…. Ya told me no before, when I- y’know, that first time. What changed that? And when?”

If possible, it's an even more idiotic question than Eggsy had thought it was, but he cannot take it back – and doesn’t want to. Because he needs to know, and he doesn’t know if he would find the courage to ask again.  
Harry looks surprised, but not displeased, licks his lips and keeps his silence for a few moments as if he didn’t know the answer. And maybe he doesn’t.

“I’m afraid there is no easy answer I can give you”, he replies eventually, slowly but without hesitation, as if he had asked himself the same question before without ever finding an answer he was satisfied with.  
“Doesn’t matter, I’ve got time.”  
Harry smiles and leans back, but still looks like it’s hard to put into words what he has to say.

“I don’t think I can pinpoint a moment. In fact, I don’t think I noticed it at first, I merely considered you a friend, a protégé who would surpass his mentor before long.” The words make Eggsy smile, like he thinks they were meant to; Harry compliments him ever so often, but that doesn’t mean he’s got gotten enough of it yet.  
“But there was this one moment in which I realised that my feelings weren’t strictly platonic, when you came home from Bursa. I don’t even know what it was, your voice or the way you smiled or just that I was so happy to have you here again, but I just knew.”

Eggsy remembers Bursa, of course he does, the mission as well as coming home, the horrible red wine he brought as a gift. That one moment where he had almost kissed Harry, the glass of wine still in his hand.  
“Bursa? Seriously?”, he can’t help but ask, taking a sip of the other’s wine because he has forgotten how bad it tastes for a second. Harry doesn’t seem to mind. “Why didn’t ya say anythin’? That was ages ago.”  
“I had to be sure first. I couldn’t have told you that I wanted you, only to take it back a few weeks later. And when I was finally certain, Roxy was already there and I thought I had waited for too long.”

“Aw damn.” It’s all that Eggsy can say right now, everything he feels; as good a fuck as Roxy was, he would rather have spent all that time in Harry’s bed. “We’ve the worst of luck, seriously.”  
“Yes. And no. After all, everything seems to have worked out in the end.”  
“That’s true”, Eggsy replies and leans in, hesitates for a second before he kisses Harry, just a press of lips against lips.

“Damn, I still can’t believe I’m allowed to do this”, he confesses while he pulls away, leaving a smile on Harry’s lips and the sour taste of atrocious Chardonnay on his own.  
“You know, you’d be allowed to do a great deal more.”  
From one moment to the next, the atmosphere shifts from pensive to flirtatious, and Eggsy can feel his lips curl into a teasing smile.  
“Oh really?”, he asks, puts a hand on the other’s thigh, and watches Harry sit more upright, spreading his legs; a challenge. “So I could do this?”  
Eggsy doesn’t give Harry a chance to respond, just leans in and kisses him deeply, licks into the older man’s mouth as soon as Harry parts his lips, nips and tugs and bites at them until he can feel his lungs protest, has to pull back to breathe.  
The kiss has left Harry’s eyes dark and his lips tinted pink; he’s beautiful and Eggsy kisses him again after just a breath of air, just as deeply but slower this time.

“You absolutely could”, Harry says when Eggsy has broken the kiss, and his voice is still annoyingly calm, even if his breath is coming a little bit heavier. He’s still teasing, challenging and Eggsy loves it, loves him.  
But he absolutely will not lose to Harry fucking Hart.  
“And this?” Again, he leans in, but this time not to kiss Harry, but instead to drag his mouth up the other’s throat, from the collar of his shirt to his jaw, then nips harshly at the tender skin there, soothes the sting with his tongue.

The sensation causes Harry’s breath to hitch, and Eggsy counts that as a victory, makes sure that Harry doesn’t have time to compose himself by whispering, “And this?”  
And swings a leg over Harry’s, effectively straddling him.

It's the closest they’ve ever been to one another and the feeling of Harry underneath him, the other’s warmth, his smell, is overwhelming, makes Eggsy feel lightheaded for a second. His hands are splayed on Harry’s chest, feeling hard muscles and a steady heartbeat.  
“Oh, you little-“, the other growls, and Eggsy might be a bit too distracted by Harry’s reaction, because he gives the other the opportunity to tilt his head back with long fingers, kiss him like Eggsy has never been kissed before.

Harry’s lips are soft against his, first press a dozen small kisses to the corners of his mouth, his parted lips, until Harry catches Eggsy’s lower lips between his teeth, nips at it before he sucks the pain away, uses Eggsy’s surprise to slide his tongue into his mouth, licking Eggsy open.  
He kisses like a nymphomaniac on death row, leaves Eggsy breathless and mindless by the time he pulls back. And more than a little bit turned on.

“Oh Jesus”, he breathes out against Harry’s lips, slides his hands up the other’s chest to his neck, needing to feel skin. “Please tell me that ya didn’t just mean _having a glass of wine_ literally.”  
The other smirks, lets his hands settle lightly on Eggsy’s hips, hot against his skin.  
“What, do you have anything else in mind?”, Harry asks, presses another small kiss to Eggsy’s lips.  
“I do, to be honest.” Eggsy can’t help but grind his hips ever so slightly against Harry. “It involves you, me an’ a lot less clothes. Maybe a bed, but that’s not strictly necessary.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and watches Harry, who is fifty-four, take off his tie. The silk slides through the other’s fingers, soft and smooth, and Eggsy’s mouth goes dry, although he is still in the middle of unbuttoning his jacket.  
“This shouldn’t be so hot”, he declares, feeling slightly offended by the way the silk whispers over Harry’s skin. The older man is still dressed impeccably, and yet Eggsy can feel arousal spreading through his body, from his stomach down his legs and up through his chest, through his arms.

Harry chuckles, and Eggsy has half the mind to glare at him, if he wasn’t so distracted by the other man unbuttoning his shirt, revealing more and more skin. “I think it was you who asked for less clothes. What did you expect?”  
“Well, for one that I’d be takin’ off your clothes”, Eggsy grumbles, still trying to undo the buttons of his jacket without looking. It proves to be harder than expected.

“Alright.” Harry’s fingers stop in mid-motion, his hands falling to his sides and if Eggsy didn’t know better, he’d say the older man looked smug. “Have it your way, then.”  
“What, really?” The words come out even more disbelieving than Eggsy feels; when they had finally made it to the bedroom upstairs, in between kisses and laughing and the occasional stumble, Harry had started undressing without a word. So naturally, Eggsy had assumed that touching would only happened once those pesky clothes had been disposed of.  
Harry, though, looks at him like Eggsy just said something very, very silly, raises an eyebrow. “Yes, of course. I thought we already established that I don’t mind your hands on me.”

Eggsy can’t help but chuckle, walk over to the other with his jacket still not unbuttoned. “You can be a right bastard, Harry Hart.”  
“So I’ve been told”, the older man replies without even the slightest bit of shame in his voice, puts his hands on Eggsy’s hips to drag him just a little closer than necessary. “And yet I do not hear you complaining.”  
Eggsy doesn’t answer right away, instead puts a finger on Harry’s jaw and draws it down the line of the other’s neck, over his collarbone to the hem of his shirt. The skin is warm against his fingertip and Eggsy doesn’t shiver, but it’s a close call.  
“Not yet”, he finally does admit, slowly, as he starts to unbutton Harry’s shirt, keeping his eyes on the other’s chest and not his face for once. “But that could change. I’m gonna keep ya around a bit longer after all.”

His fingertips brush over Harry’s stomach when the older man gently lifts his head, two fingers under Eggsy’s chin. Up close, he can still make out the differences between Harry’s good eye and the artificial one, but it doesn’t matter, not when Harry looks down at him so fondly, like he’s all that matters in the whole world.  
“Good. Because I intend to do the same.”  
“You’re a horrible, horrible sap”, Eggsy breathes out, but his voice holds no edge, is just as warm as Harry’s fingers against his skin, as affectionate as the look in the other’s eyes. He all but melts against Harry, his hands, which are still pressed against the older man’s chest, slide around him so Eggsy can hug him properly.  
One of Harry’s hands is still on his hips, the other stays on the side of Eggsy’s face when he tucks it into the crook of Harry’s neck, just breathing in, luxuriating in the other’s warmth.

“I’m gonna be really sappy now too, just t’ warn ya”, he mutters against the other’s throat, his lips dragging over warm skin. He doesn’t know what is making him say this, but all of a sudden he wants to say it, needs to say it. “An’ I don’t know if I’ll ever say it again, but… I don’t think I’ve ever been ‘appier than these last few days. I never thought that- you know, after all that ‘appened, that you’d, that we…. I really love ya. I do. An’ not just some dumb crush, I love ya an’ I’m just so fuckin glad that ya love me back.”

Harry’s fingers are brushing over his skin, relentless and soft, calm Eggsy down a little although his heart is beating hard and fast. He’s never been too good with words, especially not with words like this, those which _mean_ something.  
“…and you call me a sap.” Harry is trying to sound exasperated, but ends up sounding affectionate, amused and touched at the same time; his hand on Eggsy’s hip slides up to rest on his lower back.  
Eggsy loves him with an intensity that takes his breath away.  
“Fuck off”, he still answers and feels Harry chuckle.  
“I feel the same, though”, the older man says after a small pause, turns his head and ghosts his lips over the side of Eggsy’s neck, just where the collar of his shirt has ended. “If anyone had told me that I would fall in love again, at my age, I would have called him a liar. Possibly worse things, too. And yet, here you are. And here I am.”

“You’re a sap too”, Eggsy mumbles into Harry’s skin, then slowly tears himself away from the other, at least enough so he can kiss a line up to Harry’s jaw, nipping gently at the skin there. “We’re both saps, and if I wasn’t so gonna try and still get into your pants tonight, I’d feel disgusted.”  
“I don’t think you’ll have to try a lot.”  
“Oh really?” Eggsy kisses Harry’s lips once, twice, thrice, then pulls away, grinning. “Can’t say I mind ‘earing that. But how ‘bout we get ya out of those clothes then?”  
“I think that would be a very good idea.” Harry sounds all professional, like Arthur evaluating a decision Galahad has made, but his eyes are twinkling with mirth, with lust. “Why don’t you get on with it?”

It’s a challenge and Eggsy is so, so up to it, kisses Harry again, deeply this time. His hands find the buttons of the other’s shirt, undo them and then pull Harry’s shirt free from his pants, letting it fall open. He has seen Harry without a shirt before – in fact, he has seen most of the agents in even less clothes – but back, then, it was different. Back then, he wasn’t allowed to look and now he is, can tear himself away from Harry’s warm, soft lips and let his gaze drop to the older man’s chest, all tanned skin and lean muscle.  
“Well, fuck me”, he mutters and Harry laughs silently, presses a kiss to Eggsy’s temple.  
“That was the general idea.”  
Eggsy pays him back by pinching his nipple, something that’s more of an instinct than a conscious decision; it makes Eggsy blush faintly, look up at Harry.

The other’s eyes are dark and Eggsy only has half a second to feel smug before there are lips covering his own, kissing him. It’s not a kiss like the one they shared on the couch, but still passionate, still enough to steal the breath from Eggsy’s lungs and make his cock twitch in his pants, hardening now with every second that passes.  
“Jesus”, he breathes out when Harry pulls away, starts kissing his neck instead, little sucking bites and sweet pecks, a hot tongue laving over his skin ever so often. He’s good at this, far too good, and Eggsy’s fingers tremble as he starts to push Harry’s shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall down to the floor.

Usually, when he was in situations like this, being kissed and taking off clothes, it had always been rushed, frenzied, hurried, but this is nothing like that. This is slow and passionate, heated but not rough. In Eggsy’s mind, it’s perfect.

With Harry’s mouth still on his neck, making him shiver and gasp ever so often, Eggsy allows his hands to roam over the other’s chest, his stomach and sides, trying to memorise every scar, every dip and every hollow. Part of him still cannot believe it.  
“Harry… Harry”, he breathes , almost whimpers. He’s at least half-hard, drops his hands to feel for Harry’s cock, finding it hard as well. It’s a feeling he cannot compare to anything else, knowing that he did this, could get this reaction from Harry with just kisses and touches, makes Eggsy moan.  
Harry echoes the sound, groans against Eggsy’s throat.

“Can I undress you?”, Harry mutters and Eggsy nods before the older man can even finish the sentence.  
“Fuck yes, d’ya really think ya need to ask?”  
“No. But I wanted to.” Harry smirks against his neck and drops his hands to Eggsy’s collar. He’s better at this than Eggsy was, undoes the buttons of Eggsy’s shirts in the matter of a few seconds, slides his hands down Eggsy’s chest, over his flanks, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake.  
  
“Ah fuck”, Eggsy half-moans, but it’s hard to get those words out when Harry is touching him like this. It’s hard to just think, to be honest. “At least take me t’ bed before ya make me come in me pants.”  
Harry doesn’t even reply, just hums against Eggsy’s skin, lets his hands drop to his trousers and gets them open too, pushes them past his hips. They pool down around Eggsy’s ankles and are all but forgotten by both of them.  
Eggsy has spent hours upon hours thinking about how Harry would be in bed and yet he never expected this, that the other would be so playful, so uncaring about expensive suits and the marks he is surely leaving on Eggsy’s neck. But then again, Harry seems to have a penchant for surprising him.

The older man pulls back and for a moment, Eggsy feels disoriented; there are no hands roaming over his chest and stomach anymore, no lips pressing hot, wet kisses on his neck, no teeth nipping at his skin, and it feels strange. Wrong, even.  
“What are you waiting for?””, Harry asks and pulls him back to reality; the other is already standing close to the bed, his shirt undone and his hair mussed from Eggsy’s fingers, his lips tinted pink from Eggsy’s kisses. He looks like a wet dream, and Eggsy feels his cock twitch against the material of his underwear.  
He was waiting for this for his whole life.

But he’s not as cheesy as Harry is, so he doesn’t say those words out-loud, just walks over to the other and kisses him for the hundredth time that night, threads his hands in Harry’s hair. It’s soft and Eggsy allows himself to tug on it just a bit before he pulls away, lets himself fall down on the bed.  
He’ll never possess Harry’s natural grace, but that doesn’t seem to matter, neither to him nor the other, whose eyes are burning through Eggsy.

“Well, what are _ya_ waitin’ for then?”, he asks and Harry growls, all but crawls on top of him, hair a mess and his trousers still on. Eggsy spreads his legs and Harry settles between them, kisses him once, twice, then moves down, mouths at Eggsy’s neck and collarbone, drags his lips down to his chest.  
In all the times Eggsy has thought about this, has imagined it, their positions were always reversed – Harry on his back, watching him slide down the other’s body, his gaze dark and heavy – and yet he can’t think of anything that could be better than this. Because Harry looks up at him ever so often, sucks on his nipples and skims large hands over his stomach, and Eggsy is so hard he feels lightheaded.

“What did I say about makin’ me come in me pants?”, he asks, trying for teasing but ending up sounding breathless, desperate. Not that Harry seems to mind.  
“I don’t think I can remember.” The words are muttered against Eggsy’s lower stomach, just above his hips, and the vibrations, the heat only drive him even more insane. “But it does sound somewhat lovely.”  
“You’re an arse.”  
Harry doesn’t even grant Eggsy a reply to that, just nips sharply at his hipbone, lets his lips skim over the skin just above the hem of his boxers.

It’s hardly a touch and yet it makes Eggsy suck in a sharp breath. His fingers curl into the sheets, clutching at them, because Harry seems to be intent on teasing him, on making this last. And while it makes Eggsy hate him just a little, he loves it all the same.  
“Harry….”, he breathes out and it’s a plea; Harry answers with a kiss on his hipbone, soft and sweet.  
And he finally shows some mercy, hooks his fingers under the waistband of Eggsy’s boxers and pulls them down with one, swift motion.

Over the years, Eggsy has been naked in front of more than enough people, men and women alike, friends and lovers, marks and perfect strangers, and yet it feels like the first time when Harry looks down at him. The other’s eyes are dark, almost black, but there is more than just lust mirrored in them; there is affection and awe and a hint of the surprise that Eggsy still feels as well. Surprise that they got this far, that this is real.

He’s about to say something, most likely something he’ll regret in the end, but Eggsy never gets to do that, because Harry leans down and sucks the head of his cock into his mouth, thin, swollen lips stretched around Eggsy’s shaft.  
A moment passes in which Eggsy can’t even moan, too overwhelmed by the feeling; as soon as his brain has caught up with his body, he’s cursing, groaning Harry’s name.

The mere heat of Harry’s mouth feels amazing, the pressure of the other’s lips and tongue, the slide of skin against skin when Harry sinks down his cock making pleasure spark in Eggsy’s stomach, setting his entire body on fire.  
“Oh Jesus, fuck, Harry”, he gasps out, tries his best not to thrust up into the other’s mouth. It’s hard, almost impossible, but Eggsy manages somehow, clutches harder at the sheets when Harry looks up at him through dark lashes. The bastard.

After a moment, Harry rises again, sucks and presses the tip of his tongue against the underside of Eggsy’s cock, follows the large, pulsing vein. It’s not the best blowjob he has ever gotten, because Harry is just starting to get to know his body, but it’s a damn good one, good enough to make Eggsy’s toes curl and his mouth go dry, spitting out curse after curse.

A warm hand cradles his balls and Eggsy arches off the bed, cries out when Harry teases that sensitive spot just behind them. It’s always been one of his weaknesses, the added sensation, friction, making his hips snap up, driving his cock deeper into Harry’s mouth.  
The older man doesn’t pull away, only chokes a little bit, the muscles of his throat massaging Eggsy’s cock. “Fuck, Harry, I swear…”

It takes a moment or two until Harry has found his rhythm again, bobs his head on Eggsy’s cock; by now, every suck and lick and press of Harry’s tongue is enough to make him mewl. Heat is pooling in his stomach, liquid and fierce, and Harry seems to realise it, for he picks up his pace, sucks hard every time he sinks down on Eggsy’s cock and squeezes his balls when he rises.  
The mixture is just right, makes his head spin and it doesn’t take more than a few more minutes until Eggsy is right at the brink of orgasm, every muscle in his body tense and ready to let go.

“Harry, I’m-“, Eggsy croaks out, too far gone to even notice how wrecked his voice sounds, how desperate.  
He expects Harry to pull away, give him the last few strokes he needs to come, but the older man looks up at him, eyes ever so dark and lips stretched obscenely around Eggsy’s cock, and sinks down further. His hand squeezes Eggsy’s balls and he sucks, hard; it’s all he needs.

Eggsy comes with a shout of the other’s name, arching off the bed and spurting his seed into the other’s warm, wet mouth. His whole body is singing with pleasure, from his toes to the tips of his eyelashes, and it seems to take an eternity until the last aftershocks of his orgasm have faded, until Eggsy can think again, can open his eyes.  
Harry is still kneeling between his legs, looking a mess, lips swollen and shiny with spit and come, one hand splayed on Eggsy’s thigh.  
“Oh fuckin’ look at ya”, Eggsy breathes out, and Harry, the bastard, smirks at him as if he didn’t just have Eggsy’s cock in his mouth. “C’mere.”

Harry leans up, seems to read his mind, because he kisses Eggsy sweetly, tasting of sweat and come; it’s perfect.  
“Is that a gun or are ya just ‘appy to see me?”, Eggsy mumbles against the other’s lips and Harry makes the most amazing sound, something between a sigh and a laugh, his lips curved upwards.  
“I’m always happy to see you”, Harry replies, and Eggsy doesn’t have the heart to roll his eyes, just pecks Harry’s lips and sits up. The movement leaves them almost chest to chest, only an inch between them, and Eggsy feels himself blush, which is ridiculous, but inevitable. Because this is so intimate, sharing air, sharing kisses.

He reaches down and undoes the fly of Harry’s trousers, trying hard not to look but failing. It’s most likely not what a gentleman would do, but he’s been waiting for so long, has come to the thought of Harry’s cock so often.  
And good God, the older man doesn’t disappoint him.

Harry’s cock is thick and uncut, long enough to make Eggsy desperately wish he could get hard again to take it, right here, right now. His hands are not shaking when he gives his palm a quick lick, then wraps his fingers around the shaft, but it’s a close thing.  
It doesn’t even take half a stroke before there are sounds falling from Harry’s lips, little, bitten-off gasps and groans; Eggsy kisses them right from his mouth.

Finding the right pace is easy like this, when he can tell from the way Harry breathes and kisses and nips at his lips if he likes it or not, if this is the right spot to squeeze or not. And God, it is addictive to have the other like this.

Eggsy ends up stroking Harry fast, his thumb rubbing over the slit ever so often, his other hand cradling the older man’s balls, massaging them. They never really stop kissing, so when Harry comes after a few, long minutes, Eggsy tastes his name on the other man’s lips first, only then feels Harry’s cock twitch in his hand, warm come covering his fingers in long spurts.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, has an arm around him and his fingers in Eggsy’s hair, playing with the soft strands.  
“By the way”, Eggsy says, his voice soft and tired; he still can’t tear his eyes away from where his hand is splayed on Harry’s chest. “Does that mean I’m finally fucking me boss?”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight, wakes up because Harry, who is, as always, twenty-six years older than him, slides off the bed, leaving him cold and a little bit confused for a second.  
“What the ‘ell, come back to bed”, he mumbles, eyes drooping.  
Harry smiles, and does as he was told.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and this time, when Harry, who is still fifty-four, gets up, he does the same, rubs the sleep out of his eyes before he smiles at the other.  
In the soft, warm light of the morning, Harry looks even better, if that is possible, a few strands of hair hanging into his face, the imprint of the pillow on his cheek.  
“Mornin’”, Eggsy says softly, walks over and pecks Harry’s lips, although they both have morning breath, haven’t had a shower yet. Harry doesn’t seem to mind.

“Good morning, Eggsy”, he says, his voice so warm and fond that Eggsy’s chest seems to be two sizes too small for his heart all of a sudden.  
If he could, he’d kiss Harry again, but being gross once is enough for one morning, so Eggsy takes the other man’s hand in his instead, presses a kiss to the palm, blames the fact that he just woke up for his sappiness.

Harry’s arms are nice and toned, and Eggsy is about to go in for a hug, again ignoring the fact that they both are in dire need of a shower, when he sees it. It’s not big, just a little scrawl of blueish-black on tanned skin, but it’s more than enough to catch Eggsy’s attention.

“Is that a tat?” He feels as shocked as he probably sounds, turns Harry’s arm so he can look at the underside of the other man’s upper arm, and yes, right there, with slightly wonky lines, a Circle-A on Harry Hart’s proper, gentlemanly arm.  
“What the fuck.” It’s not even a question and Harry laughs, turns his arm so Eggsy can see a bit better.

“I never really got around getting it removed, and to be honest, I don’t want to anymore. I got it when I was far, far younger, eighteen or nineteen. It’s a good memory.” Harry talks about this like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and suddenly, Eggsy is laughing, brushes his fingers over the inked skin.  
“But why that, bruv? I mean, I never would’ve pegged ya as the tatted type anyway, but Anarchy in the UK and all or what?”  
“The girl I was going out back then did it. She was a big Sex Pistols fan.” Harry sounds almost wistful, like he hasn’t thought about this in years. “If I remember correctly, she did it with an old safety pin and some ink she scratched out of a pen. I was drunk and she blew me afterwards, to make me forget about the pain.”

“You’re takin’ the piss.” Harry has mentioned his past, but somehow Eggsy had never thought that the older man would have gone all the way. Dyed hair is one thing, but a tattoo? “I mean, shit, that’s fucking hot.”  
“Is it?”, Harry asks, a glint in his eyes that makes Eggsy wonder if they have time for round two before they have to leave for work. “Maybe I should tell you about the piercings the next time.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four; they are forty minutes late for the briefing, both of them looking only a little bit rumpled, their lips pink and swollen.  
Merlin shoots them a disapproving glare, and Harry doesn’t even answer, just sits down and watches Eggsy do the same.  
“As I was saying…”, Merlin continues, and Harry reaches out under the table, links their fingers together.

Eggsy can’t keep the smile off his lips.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Merlin is fifty-three, steps into his office with his hands clasped behind his back. He isn’t wearing his glasses, which is strange, and to be honest, a little bit worrying.  
Eggsy can’t remember more than two instances in which he has seen the other without them, and one of them was during Eggsy’s training, where he accidentally knocked them off the other man’s nose.

“I wanted to speak to you”, Merlin says, and Eggsy leans back a little, unsure if he should be glad to be distracted from filling out the thirteenth form about something-something-explosions for a mission he did four months ago, or not.  
“Yeah?”  
“Yes.” Merlin doesn’t sit down, just steps closer, his eyes calm and his voice perfectly even. “I will say this once, and only once. All surveillance in this room is turned off, so even if you tell something about this, they won’t believe you.”

“Harry Hart is my oldest friend”, he continues, looking down at Eggsy,”And if you ever dare to do anything, and I mean _anything_ , to hurt him that wasn’t 100% justified, I am going to make sure you die a very slow, very painful death. Is that understood?”  
Not once does Merlin raise his voice, not once does he blink, and Eggsy is, quite frankly, a little terrified.  
“Um. Yeah?”  
“Good.” Without even looking, Merlin produces his glasses from his pocket, puts them on again, but doesn’t activate them, not yet. “Just so you know, Roxy gave Harry the exact same talk.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight, texts Harry, _did u know that merlin would kill me slowly and painfully if i ever hurt u?_  
_Oh God_ , Harry texts back and Eggsy can’t help but laugh.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and in Malta, somewhere between Mosta and Mdina and there is a man standing in front of him. He’s not a good man by any mean, has killed more people than Eggsy has and for far worse reasons, and Eggsy shoots him in the head.  
The sound is loud and familiar, a crack that echoes in Eggsy’s head; the bullet travels through the air, shatters the man’s sunglasses and enters his head through his eye.

When he falls, his brain is splattered all over the floor, the walls. It stinks of blood, of death, and Eggsy’s hand is shaking when he lowers the gun again, but it takes a few moments until he knows why.  
Because a few years ago, he watched this from the other point of view, behind a computer screen; a few years, it had been Harry whose blood had been covering the floor.

He doesn’t break down, because he’s stronger than that and because it’s been years and years, and two days ago Harry kissed him goodbye. But he still calls Harry’s number on his way back to the jet, feeling a little bit shaken and a little bit scared.

“Eggsy?” Harry sounds a little bit rough when he picks up, a little bit like he should have spent far more time in bed than he did, and Eggsy smiles although he maybe shouldn’t. He is smeared with blood after all, has just killed a man.  
“Hey”, he answers, his voice as relieved as he feels. Just hearing Harry’s voice makes everything so much better. “Just wanted to check in, say hi, ya know?”  
“You never do that.”  
“…yeah.” Eggsy chuckles, runs a hand through his hair and closes the door behind him. “I know. New tradition, maybe?”

Harry doesn’t even say a word, just waits, because he has to know that something is wrong, that Eggsy isn’t speaking the truth.  
“…okay, maybe not. Maybe I just blew someone’s ‘ead off an’ it was…not nice.”  
“Oh.” There is rustling on Harry’s side, then footsteps and the sound of a closing door, then Harry sits down again. “Are you alright?”  
“Sure. Yeah. Not the first time I offed someone, eh?”  
“No. But sometimes that doesn’t change a thing.” Harry sounds like he knows what he is talking about and that makes it indefinitely easier. When Eggsy falls down on his seat, the tremor in his hand has stopped and this horrible, nagging feeling that this could have happened to Harry, his Harry, too.

“I suppose not.” Eggsy sighs, closes his eyes and for one moment just listens to Harry’s breaths, even if they sound tinny and not as soothing as they do when Eggsy is pillowed on the other’s chest. “I just… I guess I miss ya? And yeah, ya can call me a horrible sap now.”  
But Harry doesn’t, just hums, as if he could sense that Eggsy isn’t as into teasing him as he usually is. And maybe he can, because as good as Eggsy has become at reading Harry, the other man always seems to be better at reading him still.  
“You know, Eggsy, I miss you too.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and puts a greasy box of Chinese take-out in front of Harry, most likely staining important papers that should under no circumstances be stained. But he knows for a fact that the older man hasn’t left his office for more than six hours and by now it’s almost nine in the evening. It’s so like Harry to just forget to eat, because there is so much paperwork to do, which he hates and yet feels an obligation to do.  
Because it’s his job and someone has to.

“It’s probably not really warm anymore but at least it’s definitely edible. An’ I know that ya need it.”  
Eggsy plops down on the seat in front of Harry’s desk in the most ungentlemanly manner, puts his own carton down too. “’Lo, by the way.”  
It takes a moment for Harry to smile, but he does, in the end, it reaches his eyes, makes the skin around them crinkle, and it’s mad, but Eggsy is as much in love with him as the day when he watched Harry take a sip of atrocious wine and wince.  
“Thank you”, Harry says, reaches out and waits for Eggsy to take his hand so he can squeeze it. Harry’s hand is warm and a little bit rough, and Eggsy smiles, squeezes back.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight, but barely so, opens the door with one of Daisy’s sparkling tiaras perched on his head and a hint of glitter still smudged on his cheek from his sister’s kisses.  
It’s three minutes past seven, which means he’s too late already, but at least he’s mostly in his suit, all but the tie that he hasn’t gotten around putting on.  
Harry looks at him with an amused glint in his eyes, both real and artificial one, a rose in his hand. It’s not red, but pink, looks perfect and Eggsy knows he will still make fun of Harry for it later.

“Hi”, he greets, leans in to kiss Harry, sweetly and almost chaste. “Sorry, I’ll be ready in a sec, but Lil’ Miss Sunshine didn’t want anyone to interrupt ‘er tea party.”  
Eggsy gives the older man a slightly apologetic smile, then steps back and pulls Harry inside with him, just a hand on the other’s arm. “Don’t worry, me mum’s not at home yet, ‘s just Dais, Rob and me.”  
Rob had offered to babysit until Michelle came back from work, calling it practice for later, after Lindsay gave birth.  
“Oh, that is perfectly alright”, Harry answers with a smile and, God, Eggsy has half the mind to ask if they can’t skip his birthday dinner and go straight to Harry’s house, where they will undoubtedly end this evening. “I wouldn’t mind meeting your mother.”

It's not what Eggsy expected to hear, and all thoughts of Harry’s skin against his, Harry’s mouth and Harry’s impossibly clever hands, vanish within a second.  
“But I would”, he replies with a slight frown. “Not because ya aren’t the light of me miserable life, or anythin’, but because o’ her. She’s me mum but- let’s just say she can be fuckin’ mental if she thinks someone’s…”  
_Not good enough for me_ , is what Eggsy should finish the sentence with but doesn’t, because it’s such an insane thought that _Harry_ could in any way be not good enough for him.

But he seemingly doesn’t have to say it, because Harry squeezes his hand, looks at him with his bright eyes, his bright smile dimmed a little. “Of course. I understand that. Maybe… another time.”

“Yes.” Eggsy can’t help but feel a bit bad for making Harry look like this, talk like this, but in the end, it’s better this way. His mum can be _brutal_. “Just, I’ll best ease her into it a bit. Y’know?”  
Before the other can answer, Eggsy kisses him softly, licks into Harry’s mouth to make him forget that yes, Eggsy could have started with easing his mum into the whole situation before; they have been together for two months and seven days after all.

Harry kisses back and puts a hand on Eggsy’s hip, giving it a light squeeze before he pulls back. It seems to have worked because Harry smiles again, says, “But now off you go, we’ll be late anyway.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight and Harry is fifty-four, leads him out on the street where no taxi is waiting for them.  
“Did ya forget something, maybe?”, Eggsy asks with an amused smile, looks over at Harry.  
The older man holds his gaze, answers, “Not really. It isn’t far, and I thought we could just take a walk. If you don’t mind?”  
“Nah, not at all. It is nice outside after all.” Eggsy lets Harry lead the way, but steps a little closer, so their shoulders touch when they walk, a constant reminder that Harry is right there.“Tell me where we’re goin`?”  
“Absolutely not.”

It’s the answer Eggsy expected, but he still pouts a bit, because as much as Harry likes surprises, he doesn’t.  
“But it’s my birthday!”  
“Exactly.” Harry turns around and looks at him, a smile on his lips, one of those Eggsy likes best – it’s warm and affectionate, looks a bit like Harry is still grateful to have him. “By the way. Happy birthday, darling.”  
Eggsy smiles before he knows it, too happy; he’s had nicknames before, given by lovers, but this is different, this is nothing to spur him on in bed, nothing to put a claim on him, this is Harry who loves him and doesn’t mind showing it.  
Still, Eggsy is Eggsy, smiles and smiles and squeezes the other’s hand for a moment, then says, “Darlin’? Really?”

“Yes.” It is more a fact than an answer, and Eggsy has to suppress the urge to kiss Harry right there, in the middle of the street. “Would you rather I called you something else?”  
“Ah, no, darlin’s fine. As long as it’s not, dunno, honey pie.”  
“I see.” Eggsy knows that he shouldn’t have said anything before Harry even continues, because Harry Hart can be a right bastard, if he wants to be. And apparently, he wants to be that right now. “Honey pie.”

When Eggsy shoves him slightly, he feels not even a hint of remorse.

 

Eggsy is twenty-eight, but just for an hour or so longer, and Harry is fifty-four, sets down a plate in front of him. They aren’t at a restaurant after all, because Harry is a lying little bastard, who apparently doesn’t want to take him out for oysters and sinfully expensive steak after all.  
“You told me once that your mum used to bring back fish and chips for your birthday”, Harry explains, and Eggsy looks down at the plate for the first time, even if it seems like a shame to waste any second he can spend looking at Harry instead.

The plate is laden with golden chips, and large, crispy looking pieces of fish; it smells amazing, but that’s not the important thing. The important thing is that Harry remembered this, that he took the time to make it, that he made it for him.  
“Oh”, Eggsy breathes out, unsure what to say, because he feels so much. “That’s... wow. Harry. Thank you.”  
He looks up at the other, because he usually is better with looks than with words. Harry is smiling, and Eggsy smiles back, reaches out to take the older man’s hand.  
“Thank you. For everything.”

Harry squeezes back, says, “Nothing to thank me for, darling.”  
“Still your darlin’ then?”, Eggsy asks, watches the other put down the second plate. Sometimes, he forgets what a good cook Harry is, especially lately, because they hardly have anything more fancy than take out these days, but the smell wafting up from the plates is enough to remind him again; it smells like heaven.  
“Absolutely. After all, I am not allowed to call you honey pie anymore, am I now?”  
“Nope.” Eggsy waits until Harry has sat down too, grinning brightly at the other. He’s had a lot of birthdays already, but this might just be the best of them, spending it with the man he loves and what looks like could be the best fish and chips he has ever tasted. “I don’t mind the darlin’ though.”

“That’s good. Because I think it fits you rather well.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine at last, curled up next to Harry, who is still, as always twenty-six years older than him. When he planned this night, they always ended up having sex, either on the sofa because they couldn’t wait any longer, or on the bed, because they wanted to take their time, make it special.  
But the fish and chips were just as good as Eggsy thought it would be and he had had as least twice as much as he should have had, together with more champagne than he should have drunk and that after a day that was too long already. So in the end, they just both collapsed on the bed, mainly undressed and yet unwilling to do anything about it.  
Eggsy is lying on Harry’s chest, his hands splayed out on the other’s skin, feeling the steady beat of Harry’s heart under his palm, and really, it’s quite perfect.

“So, how about me present, then?” Eggsy answers after a moment more of pleasant silence, and Harry stiffens under him.  
“Oh shit”, the other mutters with feeling and Eggsy chuckles, starts to draw circles on Harry’s skin. “I absolutely forgot – not your present, of course, just giving it to you. Do you want me to get it now?”  
“Aw, nah. Don’t worry.” Eggsy smiles up at Harry, presses a kiss to the other’s chest. “I’m sure I’ll like it just as much tomorrow mornin’…and I don’t really feel like lettin’ ya get up at all. You’re comfy.”  
“Am I now?” Harry sounds amused, but reaches out and puts a hand in Eggsy’s hair, plays with the soft strands almost absentmindedly. This is one of the things Eggsy likes best about this new thing between them – how easy everything seems to be, that they can just lie here, touch and talk.  
“Absolutely.”

His eyes are drooping already, but Eggsy forces them to stay open for a little bit longer. Just a little bit, just because there is something he still has to say.  
“I love ya”, he mutters, his lips brushing against Harry’s warm skin. Ever since that first night, when he came to Harry’s house to talk to him, he hasn’t said those words out loud, and while they do not sound as important and as severe as they did back then, they still echo in Eggsy’s head.

For a few moments, there is silence, nothing but Harry’s fingers moving through his hair and their breathing, but then Harry sits up a little bit, presses a kiss to Eggsy’s head.  
“I love you too. Never doubt that, darling.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and wakes up in Harry’s bed, who is still fifty-four, with one of the older man’s arms slung across his waist. It’s unusual that he wakes before Harry, but he really doesn’t mind it, especially not today, when it gives him time to just enjoy the closeness, the warmth of Harry’s chest pressed against his back.  
Back in the days before Harry, before Kingsman, Eggsy had thought he would end up with a girlfriend he would marry at some point, either because he knocked her up or because it was expected of him, would get a job at Tesco maybe, arranging canned soup in shelves for the rest of his life. They’d have a kid or two, he’d come home tired every evening and get up just as tired the next morning.  
At some point, he’d die and no one would really notice.

He would have been happy, of course – Eggsy isn’t as much a romantic as to think that he wouldn’t ever have found love without Harry – but he doesn’t think he would have been as happy as he is right now.

Behind him, Harry stirs, as if he knew what Eggsy was thinking about, and it makes Eggsy smile, makes him link their hands together under the blanket.  
“Mornin’, sleepyhead”, he says softly, and Harry mumbles something that is lost somewhere in between the other’s mouth and Eggsy’s shoulder blades. It’s strangely adorable, makes Eggsy feel warm and safe and beyond just happy.  
His arm tightens around Eggsy’s waist, pull him closer and so Harry can press a kiss to the back of his neck.  
“Don’t ya wanna get up and, dunno, be all energetic and shit?”, he asks, and Harry makes a sound against his neck that is half a groan and half a chuckle.  
“No”, Harry breathes out, his voice hoarse with sleep and sweet with affection. “No moving.”

And Eggsy loves him, smiles and snuggles back, lets his eyes slip shut again. “Have it your way then, old man.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Harry is fifty-four, kisses Eggsy when he gets out of the shower. He’s still wet, hair dripping everywhere, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind; he’s only half-dressed, his shirt unbuttoned, so it doesn’t seem to matter that much when Eggsy gets it wet, puts his hands on the older man’s chest , slides them around his body.  
Harry tastes like toothpaste and smells like expensive shower gel, his stubble is rough against Eggsy’s cheeks when he licks into his mouth.

He wanted to ask for his birthday present, but the thought is all but forgotten, because Harry kisses him slowly, deeply, bites at his lips just a little bit, and Eggsy can feel his whole body responding, tingling, pressing closer.  
There is just something about Harry that makes it easy to lose his mind, and Eggsy is absolutely sure that the other knows it, delights in making Eggsy melt under his touches.

The first kiss breaks because Eggsy needs to breathe, but it doesn’t take more than a few seconds until Harry’s lips are on his again, pressing short kisses to his mouth, then his cheeks, his jaw. They feel important, every single one of them, like Harry wanted to do all this the night before and didn’t have time for it, so Eggsy reciprocates, pushes the shirt off his shoulders and forgets about it within a second, because he can touch Harry now, can feel him.  
Harry mutters something against his jaw which Eggsy doesn’t understand, but it doesn’t seem to be important, because the older man doesn’t stop to repeat it, just slides his lips down Eggsy’ neck.

They kiss for what feels like an eternity, and then they’re moving, Harry backwards and taking Eggsy with him, one step at a time. It’s not far from the bathroom to the bedroom, but it still takes far too long until they fall down on the unmade bed again, Harry pulling Eggsy with him.  
A laugh escapes Eggsy, soft and happy, and Harry kisses the last few lingering sounds of it off his lips, smiling as well.  
“Still haven’t gotten me present”, Eggsy comments, pulls Harry’s hands to his hips, an invitation to keep touching. “Although we got up and all.”  
“I’m going to give you something else entirely”, Harry answers; it sounds like a promise, heated and yet gentle.

“Oh, are you now?” Eggsy grins, but his heart is picking up its pace. He’s dreamt of this, or what he thinks this might become, and now that he thinks Harry might be offering, he can’t help but be nervous. Even if he had sex with more than a dozen people, over several dozen times.  
“I might just.”  
Harry bends down and brushes his lips over Eggsy’s cheek, down to his jaw and his neck, varying between little kisses and quick licks of his tongue. It draws a soft sound from Eggsy, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment or two.  
“Really? Bring it on, then.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Harry is fifty-four, looks down at him with infinite fondness shining out of his eyes.  
His lips are swollen with kisses and little nips, his neck and chest littered with marks, his cock is so hard that Eggsy is close to crying, and all that because Harry is a teasing little shit. He would have been ready an hour ago, but the older man wouldn’t stop kissing, licking, sucking until Eggsy had to forcibly push him away, make it clear that he wouldn’t accept a second more of delay, no matter how good Harry’s tongue felt inside of him.

Harry had laughed, but complied anyway, lifting Eggsy’s legs over his shoulders and leaning down to kiss him again. Somehow, it had been calming, the feeling of Harry’s lips pressed against his, soft and yet unyielding. At least until the older man had licked his mouth open once more, had sucked on Eggsy’s tongue and made him moan, grind up against Harry like a goddamned hooker.  
But there was no way of stopping it, not when it felt so good and he was so hard that it was a wonder his brain still had enough blood to function.

And all that left them here, with Harry looking down at him like Eggsy is the sole reason the sun rises every morning.  
“Oh c’mon”, Eggsy mutters because he still needs this more than he needs to breathe right now, and because he can feel the blush forcing its way onto his cheeks; he’s still not quite used to this intensity. “Please, Harry…”  
“Anything you want”, Harry says, and Eggsy believes him.

Two, three more seconds pass, then Harry moves, shifts until the head of his cock is pressed against Eggsy’s hole, making him moan, because he’s been fantasising about this for years now and God, he needs it. But Harry makes him wait, kisses him again until Eggsy’s cock is leaking precome, smearing it over both their stomachs when the older man straightens once more.  
He gives Eggsy another smile, soft and sweet, and then does what Eggsy has been begging him to do for what feels like an eternity now – pushes into him.

It is a single, slow thrust, nothing too different from the other times Eggsy had let someone fuck him, but it _feels_ different. It feels different because it’s Harry, because he can feel the other so deep inside him, and although it’s the worst of all clichés, it feels like they are one.  
He might sob out some words, Eggsy isn’t sure, since Harry makes it impossible to concentrate, doesn’t waste a second before he pulls out again, sets a pace that’s slow, but deep enough to force the breath out of Eggsy’s lungs.

At some point, his eyes must have shut, because Eggsy has to force them open again, biting his lips to stop himself from making the neediest sounds from the friction alone, the hint of pain even an eternity of preparation couldn’t prevent. Harry is looking down at him, a flush high on his cheeks and his lips glistening wetly in the dim light, his hair hanging down into his forehead in curls, but what really gets Eggsy are his eyes.  
His pupils are blown wide, but it’s not the lust that makes Eggsy swoon, it’s the adoration that is written all across the other’s face in big, bold letters, impossible to miss. It’s the love shining out of his eyes, the same that Eggsy knows is mirrored on his own face.

This time, it’s Eggsy who drags the other man down into a kiss, one that is messy and wet, but passionate, perfect even, because it forces Harry even deeper into him, the other’s shaft stretching Eggsy open wide. He’s moaning into Harry’s mouth, hips moving on their own accord.  
“Jesus, fuck, Harry…”, he mutters, tightens his hold around Harry’s neck, clinging to him, and Harry rolls his hips, makes his cock rub across all of the right places.

If the other is as affected by this as Eggsy is, he can’t say because Harry just groans, starts to kiss his neck, soft, feathery touches of his lips while he continues to fuck Eggsy with long, slow thrusts.  
A day ago, Eggsy would have said that he’d want to be fucked hard and fast, so unlike now, and yet the pace feels perfect, makes him concentrate and gives his body enough time to react, to feel. His legs tighten around Harry, because the other is giving him so much and yet it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

As always, Harry seems to understand; the next thrust is harder, deeper still, makes Eggsy tip his head back and keen. Pleasure is spreading through his entire body, making his nerves sing with it, his muscles tense and cramp, his mind dizzy, unable to focus on anything other than the sensation of Harry driving into him again and again, spearing him open and making Eggsy his.  
Because that is what this is too, not just sex on the first day of Eggsy’s thirtieth year on this Earth, this is making a next step, an important step. This is sealing the deal, so to speak, at least for Eggsy.

And maybe that is why he tries to pull Harry even closer, although his body aches with being bent in half, his orgasm approaching fast although Eggsy doesn’t want to ever let this stop. Harry kisses his lips again, and Eggsy all but sobs into the kiss, opens his mouth to deepen it.  
It’s a unique sensation, having Harry taking him from both sides (the kiss is scorching, a brand, a searing hot mark Harry leaves on him) and Eggsy thinks he could die happily right now, in Harry’s arms, kissing Harry’s lips, clenching around Harry’s cock. Because it feels like this is where he belongs, like everything has been building up to bring him here.

He’s moaning, gasping curses and endearments, but although every thrust of Harry’s cock is the sweetest kind of torture, it’s even worse when the other stops. Eggsy’s eyes flutter open once more, his lips already stretched around a whine, which Harry kisses off them.  
“Can you come like this?”, Harry asks once he has pulled back, and his voice is a mess, all rough and hoarse, even if the older man has hardly done more than moan lowly. “Or do you want me to touch you?”

It’s not the sweetest thing which Harry has ever said to him, but it hits something deep inside him – of course he knew that Harry is a generous lover, always intent to make it as good as possible for Eggsy, but stopping in the middle, when he _knows_ that Harry is just as close as Eggsy is, that’s something different altogether. Especially since most of Eggsy’s former partners were more than happy with letting Eggsy do the extra work.

Still, he stays silent for a few moments, because he genuinely doesn’t know what to answer. Theoretically, he can; it has happened before, two, three times, but never with someone else, just with his fingers up his arse, knowing where to press, how to rub.  
And yet, if anyone could make him come just from being fucked, it’s Harry, and Eggsy desperately, desperately wants him to.  
So in the end, he shakes his head, flushing, says, “’s fine, just - just don’t stop…”

Harry curses under his breath – and, God, that is worth it, even if he won’t be able to come like this, will need the older man’s hand afterwards, the look on Harry’s face right now is worth everything – and then he adjusts the position of Eggsy’s legs over his shoulders, pulls out and thrusts into Eggsy again.  
It’s a little harder than before, the angle different, so that Harry’s cock drags right across his prostate, making Eggsy clench down around the other’s shaft, moans and half-formed pleas falling from his lips. Harry makes a choked off sound, then leans down to kiss Eggsy again, setting a rhythm that makes him lose his mind.

All the while, Harry is groaning against his lips, his jaw, his neck and it takes so long until Eggsy realises that the other is speaking, breathing out Eggsy’s name, endearments, different versions of _so good_ and _perfect_ and _beautiful_. He sounds overwhelmed, like this is as special to him as it is to Eggsy, and that’s what finally makes it too much.

Harry sucks on that spot just below his jaw, the one that Eggsy never even knew about before Harry, but that makes it hard to concentrate on anything at all, stops only for a second to whisper, _darling_. His next thrust drags the head of his cock across Eggsy’s prostate in just the right way, and before he knows it, Eggsy is coming untouched.

Before Harry, before this, he always thought most descriptions of orgasms were exaggerated, impossible, but the pleasure almost makes his vision white out, his head thrown back as words and moans and Harry’s name spill from his mouth. It’s overwhelming, almost too much and yet Eggsy is moving in time with the older man’s thrusts, trying to get more still.  
He’s still riding the last waves of his orgasm when Harry comes, shuddering and going still, buried deep inside of Eggsy, filling him up with his come.

It’s another kind of brand, another kind of mark, and one which Eggsy eagerly accepts, throwing his arms around the older man’s shoulders and pulling him close, kissing him with all the dizzy passion still roaring inside of him.  
Harry doesn’t kiss back, just pants into Eggsy’s mouth, clings to him as if Eggsy was the only thing that still kept him grounded. And maybe, Eggsy thinks, he is.

They stay like this for a few more minutes, Harry finally recovering enough to kiss back, slides his hands down Eggsy’s flanks, over his shoulders, just touching with no other intent than to feel how close they are. And it’s the same thought that makes Eggsy kiss the other’s jaw and neck, rolling his hips a little, although the friction is just on the wrong side of being too much, because Harry is exactly where he wants him to be. Inside of him, fused with him.  
It’s impossibly intimate, makes Eggsy feels like he can’t breathe in the best of ways; eventually, they fall asleep again, still locked together and Eggsy wakes up with Harry half on top of him, playing with his hair.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Harry is fifty-four when he gives him his present at last. It’s a small parcel, wrapped in dark blue paper, and Eggsy thinks that he can see a hint of nervousness in Harry’s eyes when he unwraps it.  
They’re still on the bed, still naked, but it feels as comfortable as always, and Eggsy almost cuts himself on the wrapping paper because his eyes keep wandering back to Harry’s chest.

“That doesn’t feel like a tie”, he jokes, feels the sharp edges and hard surfaces. Harry looks exasperated and impossibly fond, reaches out to stroke his fingertips over the inside of Eggsy’s knee.  
“It was supposed to be a surprise after all.”  
“Sure thing. Wouldn’t want ya to lose that sense of mysteriousness-“  
Eggsy stops in the middle of his sentence, because he has unwrapped the present and is staring down at a picture of a young man that has his eyes and the same sharp jaw, dressed in a suit. He’s grinning brightly at a much younger Harry Hart, whose hair is coifed in the same way Eggsy knows it, whose smile is less bright but just as sincere.

“Is this…” He can’t even get the words out, although he knows the answer already, but Harry knows what he wants to say anyway, nods.  
“Yes. I took him to have a suit made, just like you”, Harry explains, his voice soft and a little melancholic. “He enjoyed it, as far as I know. Made Merlin take a picture so he could show it to James later, to brag a little.”  
“Sounds like me”, Eggsy answers a little distractedly, traces the lines of Harry’s body.  
“It does.”  
Again, Harry brushes his fingertips over Eggsy’s leg, but this time, Eggsy catches his hand in his own, holds it tight.  
“Thank you”, he says, and Harry smiles.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Roxy is on a date and the same age, texts _This one isn’t too bad_.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and he’s in Mallorca, following the girlfriend of a mobster of some kind. It’s getting hard to tell them apart by now.  
The air is warm and disgusting with the smell of old beer and sweat, but Eggsy tries to ignore it, pretends to be as drunk as the people around him are. It’s not hard, really; Eggsy had enough experience with drunk people after all.

“Merlin, seriously, bruv”, he mutters, just loud enough that the microphone can pick it up. “This is the most boring shite ya made me do since Carlow.”  
“Carlow wasn’t me, so don’t dare making me responsible for that”, comes the answer within a second. The handler sounds amused, like he is enjoying it far too much. Eggsy hates him just a little bit for it, and a bit more for being right.  
“Well then get me Harry and I’ll tell ‘im ‘ow dumb this is.”  
“I would, but unfortunately he is in a meeting with someone from MI6 so I am stuck with listening to you whine.”

“Aw. Well, give ‘im a kiss from me and tell ‘im I’ll be back for dinner tomorrow. And that I hate him for making me go to Carlow”, Eggsy teases, and Merlin chuckles; it sounds fond and Eggsy promises himself that he’ll bring Merlin some kind of wine back to England. Maybe a bottle of that stuff Harry likes, Tempranillo or something.  
“God, you two. I won’t tell him anything, you can do that yourself. Otherwise I’ll have to listen to him whine too and I don’t think I could live through that.”  
“I love ya too”, Eggsy replies, pretends to be looking for his phone, his hands sufficiently clumsy.  
“You should tell that to Harry.”  
“Don’t worry, he knows.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything, just groans.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Ector dies in the field. It's a clean, quick death, a cut throat, and it’s the smallest of mercies, but a mercy nonetheless.  
He leaves a wife and three daughters behind, and Eggsy tells them how sorry he is at the funeral; feels guilty when he cries that night, bundled up in his blankets, because he doesn’t only cry for Ector, whose real name was Vincent, but for every other agent, for himself and for Harry as well.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and his first proposal is a girl he knows from the Marines, Theresa. She’s got a bright smile and dark hair, a missing canine from a riding accident when she was thirteen.  
Back in the Marines they never got along too well, but Eggsy knows just how good she is and how much Kingsman would profit from having her amongst its ranks.  
She looks a little surprised when he shows up at her flat, looks very doubtful when Eggsy tells her who he is working for.  
Apparently his mum wasn’t the only one without high hopes for him.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and in the middle of Egypt, wishing he could be looking at pyramids and not at more paperwork, and Harry turns fifty-five.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Daisy comes running when he opens the door to his house, blonde hair tied up into pigtails.  
She throws her arms around him and Eggsy hugs back, kisses the top of her head.  
“’Lo there, princess”, he greets and Daisy giggles.  
“Missed ya”, she mutters and Eggsy’s heart swells; he picks her up and spins her around, letting her fly like he did when she was just three years old.  
“I missed ya too”, he replies, and it’s true – Egypt was exhausting and worthwhile and still too long. “But I brought ya something, do ya wanna see?”

The only reply is an excited squeal.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and it’s far too late when he walks back into HQ, then right into Harry’s offic. The sun has set two hours ago, but Harry is still working, most likely hasn’t eaten yet, so Eggsy has a bag with Indian takeout with him. The smell is making his stomach growl already.  
It might be that sound that makes Harry look up, an eyebrow raised and his glasses hanging precariously from the bridge of his nose.  
“Hi, ya workaholic”, Eggsy greets, walks up to Harry’s desk to drop the food onto it, in the middle of a pile of paper. “Brought ya some food.”

“You’re an angel sent from heaven”, Harry answers and Eggsy can’t help but laugh, lean across the desk to kiss the other softly.  
“Please remember that the next time ya wanna yell at me for somethin’.”  
“I’ll try to. But I can’t promise anything.”  
“I’ll remind ya, if need be.” Eggsy takes out one, two, three, four boxes, a couple of plastic spoons which Harry glares at, but takes anyway. He can be such a snob sometimes.

“I’m sure you will.” There is no doubt in Harry’s eyes or voice, even while he snatches one of the boxes, breathes it deeply. A groan makes it past his lips, which makes Eggsy wonder just how long it has been since he has eaten. Probably far too long.  
“I’ve gotta start feeding ya more often”, Eggsy comments, sits down and takes a box too, at random, since he picked out all the food anyway.  
Harry is still waiting for him to be ready before he begins, which is both sweet and ridiculous, so Eggsy takes a spoonful of his curry and shoves it into his mouth before the older man dies from starvation.

It doesn’t taste great, but Harry looks like he has just taken a bite of heaven, makes a very ungentlemanly sound, and Eggsy loves him a whole damn lot.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine, just about half an hour older, and Harry is fifty-five, is sitting on the couch, looking at some papers while Eggsy is fighting his hardest to stay awake, snuggled into Harry’s side. He’s filled up to the brim with Indian food and the cheap cider he bought them, warm and content and wrapped in Harry’s jacket (“Won’t it crease?”, he has asked sleepily, and Harry had grinned, answered, “Since when do you care about the state of my suits?”).  
Harry’s fingers are playing with his hair, tugging softly at the soft strands, and the door opens.

Eggsy can’t bring himself to move, so he just cracks his eyes open, sees Merlin standing there with even more godforsaken paper in his hands. At this rate, they’ll never leave the building.  
“Oh, hello. I didn’t know you were still in. What’s the matter?”, Harry says almost happily, his fingernails scraping over Eggsy’s scalp in the nicest way. It makes him sigh a little, but he still gives Merlin a smile, even manages a little wave in the other’s direction.  
“Oh, nothing too important.” Merlin’s voice sounds different, gentler somehow, a little touched even, but Eggsy isn’t quite sure if that really is the case or if he is just too tired to distinguish different emotions by now. “Just wanted to drop these off, you’ll need them for the meeting tomorrow. The one with the prime minister.”

“Ah yes, of course.” Harry shifts a little bit, which almost makes Eggsy whine, gestures to his desk. “Could you put them over there? And take one of the samosas, if you want to. Eggsy bought enough food for six people, not just the two of us.”  
Merlin looks at them for another few moments, then walks out of Eggsy’s sight, who finally lets his eyes drift shut again.

There is rustling of paper and then the sound of what Eggsy presumes is Merlin picking up a samosa.  
“I hate to say that you were right”, is the last thing Eggsy hears Merlin say, before he falls asleep. “But this time, you were.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Harry is fifty-five, stirring in a large pot while Eggsy is busy chopping vegetables into small pieces. It’s strangely domestic, Eggsy occasionally slapping Harry’s butt when he goes to get _yet another zucchini, really Harry?_ and the older man humming along to the music on the radio.  
The stew is almost finished when the doorbell rings, interrupting Mozart’s Zauberflöte, a part which Harry calls _Die Wahnsinnsarie_ and which apparently was written to annoy someone, a motive Eggsy seriously can get behind. Harry looks as surprised as Eggsy feels, but still leaves his spices and salts behind to go and open it.

What Eggsy expects to hear is some kind of _fuck off_ , but there is nothing, instead Harry returns a minute later, Merlin trailing right behind him.  
Over the past years, Eggsy has only seen the man outside of the office a couple of times, but never like this. He’s dressed in what looks like the oldest pair of jeans in existence, a grey jumper, another pair of glasses perched on his nose – why did it never occur to Eggsy that Merlin might actually need something to help him see? – but the strangest thing is the flush on his cheeks, the grin on his lips, the way his eyes shine with happiness.

“Come on, just tell me what she said, you prick”, Harry all but orders, but there is no heat in his voice, he doesn’t sound like he needs Merlin to say it out-loud to know the answer either.  
“She said yes.” The words fall from the man’s lips like he can still hardly believe them, like it’s too much to take in, and Eggsy is confused but can’t stop himself from grinning, because Merlin looks so happy. “She said yes, Harry.”  
A smile blossoms on Harry’s face, almost as wide as Merlin’s, he puts a hand on the other’s shoulder, says, “Congratulations. But Archie, of course she did. I never doubted it for a second.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine when he finds out that Merlin’s given name is Archibald.  
They’re sitting at the dining table, big bowls of stew and a bottle of especially good (or at least especially expensive) wine divided into three glasses in front of them.  
If the stew is too salty, because Harry didn’t pay that much attention to it anymore, none of them minds, and really, isn’t there a saying that people in love oversalt their food?  
Which fits so well, not just because of him and Harry, but apparently also because of Merlin. Because apparently the other is getting married, to the woman Eggsy brought the present to, the one who is called Polyhymna, but whose real name is Eleftheria. Elfie, as the other two call her.

“So ya trained to be Galahad together?”, Eggsy asks after talk about the proposal, the reaction, how Merlin is going to give her the ring when she’s in Athens and Merlin is needed in London, because he’s always eager to find out more about Harry’s past. “The two o’ ya and Elfie?”  
“Exactly. We were a little bit like you and Roxy, I guess – down to the casual sex part.” Harry smirks, Merlin groans and Eggsy chokes on his very expensive wine.  
“What. Are ya saying. Ya two. And your girlfriend – I mean fiancée.”  
“Absolutely.”  
“Don’t let him fool you. It was only twice –“  
“Thrice, Archie.”  
“ _Okay_ , thrice. Although I still don’t remember the third time completely. The point is, though, it was nothing special and I still have nightmares about this old git’s mouth around my cock.” Merlin tries his best to sound annoyed, but it doesn’t quite work. It seems to be a fond memory, that time, for both of them.

“Can’t imagine how that would be a nightmare”, Eggsy answers, grins, although his brain is still trying to cope with the new information. His Harry and Merlin, thirty years younger and getting it on – where, the dorms? “I at least don’t have _bad_ dreams ‘bout it.”  
“He must have gotten a lot better in the last thirty years then.”  
“Don’t listen to him, darling”, Harry says immediately, “I’ll have you know that my blowjobs were always excellent and Archie here just didn’t know how to appreciate them.”  
“I swear, if you call me that again, I will tell him all about Budapest.”  
“…I hate you.”  
“No, you don’t.” Merlin looks smug, takes a sip of wine and Harry sends him a very dirty glare, the kind which makes Eggsy even more curious to know what did happen in Budapest.  
“I could start to.”  
“In that case I could just tell him about _Shanghai_.”  
“Oh, _fuck off_.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine, Harry is fifty-five and Merlin is fifty-three, and all of them are on the best way to getting really, really drunk.  
“So when’s the weddin’?”, Eggsy asks, takes another sip of the far too expensive whiskey they switched to after dinner. He never really thought that he would get drunk with his handler, but it’s nice, it is. “An’ where?”  
“I don’t know.”, Merlin says, and Eggsy loves how slurred his words are, how happy he still looks, how much he smiles.  
He reaches out and takes Harry’s hand under the table, grins when Harry squeezes it.  
“Here, though. Definitely here. I’m not going to get married in Greece. No fuckin’ way”, Merlin continues.  
“Elfie will want to, though.” Harry looks thoughtful. “You know how she is. She’ll want to have her entire family there. Yours too.”

“Aw yeah, does that mean holiday in Greece?”, Eggsy asks, far too excited already. He has been to Greece, but only on missions and once when he was five years old and his dad was still alive.  
“I didn’t even invite you yet”, Merlin points out, which could be mean, but doesn’t really sound like it at all.  
“Ya didn’t, but that don’t matter”, Eggsy replies cheerfully, pulls Harry closer to him, even if that means that the older man is just so balancing on his chair. “Cause even if ya don’t, I’ll still be Harry’s plus one. “  
Merlin groans, and Harry grins, even goes as far as to high five Eggsy when he holds his hand up.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Theresa makes it into the last six.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Rob sends him a snap of an ultrasound picture. He can’t make out anything, but there is the caption _MY SON!!!!!_  
He calls him a few minutes later, because sending back just a picture doesn’t seem like enough, and Rob sounds so deliriously happy, so proud that Eggsy is grinning almost the entire time they talk.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Theresa misses the K when they make her jump out of a plane. It’s a bit disappointing, but not too bad.  
He talks Harry into getting her a position in the Chilean Kingsman department, where Theresa’s grandma still lives, and she hugs him when Eggsy tells her.

“Thank you”, she whispers into Eggsy’s shoulder, and he can’t help but feel proud, feel happy, and wish her the best of luck.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and it’s Roxy’s thirtieth birthday; they celebrate it on the floor of Roxy’s living room, because she just came home from a mission in Canada and is too tired to move.  
So she’s lying with her head in Eggsy’s lap and they are drinking whiskey through a straw out of the bottle, the TV turned on with neither of them watching.  
It’s been too long since they had a whole night just for the two of them, and Eggsy knows it’s mostly him who is to blame.

“Eggsy, d’you think we could have ended up as more than this? Like, without Harry happening and all?”, Roxy asks all of a sudden, her words just a little slurred, which doesn’t keep her from taking another sip of whiskey. She’s looking up at him, honey blonde hair spread out on Eggsy’s jeans and down the green carpet; Eggsy takes a moment to think, steals the whiskey right out of her hand and sucks on the straw.  
“I dunno”, he finally admits, lets himself fall back against the sofa they are sitting in front of, tilting his head a little. “I mean, I love ya, ya know that. An’ I dunno what I’d do without ya, an’ you’re definitely the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen – an’ yeah, I mean includin’ the film stars I met on that mission in Saint Tropez –“  
“Shut up.”  
“- and ya give like, the best handjobs ever, but…” Eggsy pauses, because speaking is harder when you’re drunk and this still seems important. “It’s just that I never looked at ya an’ thought _Oh, I wanna maker ‘er mine_. I thought _Oh, I wanna shag ‘er_ , but never – nothin’ else. Nothin’ more. So, I dunno. Probably not in this universe. Maybe another, though?”

Roxy stays silent for a bit, so Eggsy takes another mouthful of whiskey, thinks about how much Harry would kick his arse for drinking it with a straw.  
“You’re right”, she finally agrees, turns to the side and makes a grabby motion with her hand until Eggsy hands her the bottle, pushes the straw between her lips. His hand wanders into Roxy’s hair, because it’s still so easy to touch her, always was.  
“O’ course I am. Don’t act so surprised.”  
Roxy doesn’t answer, just laughs.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and stumbles out of Roxy’s flat at ten in the morning. Hung over doesn’t seem to be enough to describe the state he is anymore, but it’s Sunday, so it doesn’t matter. Sunday is his day off after all, and Roxy only turns thirty once.  
He could go home, should go home, really, but he doesn’t. It’s a small truth that has been lurking in the back of his mind for a long time – he likes his house, his bed, his room, but he likes Harry’s better.  
Because of the other man, but not just because of him, it’s more than that. It’s the fact that he knows where the tea spoons are, which setting on the dishwasher doesn’t work for some strange reason, how much water the pot plants need, which buttons to press to get to Sky Sports on Harry’s TV.  
It’s the fact that it feels like home.

And although they have been going out for months now, have known each other for years, it’s still a slightly scary thought. That he’s so committed, still so in love with Harry that he wishes he could carve out a space in the other’s life which no one else will ever be able to fill.

Still, it’s easier to acknowledge it when your body is still not quite over the two beers and half bottle of whiskey you forced into it the night before, so Eggsy hunts down a cab and gives the driver Harry’s address. Hopes that the other man will be at home.  
The drive itself is hell, too long and too loud and too bumpy, but he makes it through it somehow without throwing up, hands the driver too much money and almost stumbles over the steps leading up to Harry’s door. Were they always this steep?

An eternity seems to pass between Eggsy ringing the doorbell and Harry opening it, but in reality, it could only be a few seconds; it feels like he has lost his sense of time completely.  
“Eggsy?”, the other half asks, half greets, looking far too amused for Eggsy’s liking. “You look like shit, darling.”  
“Oh shut up.” Eggsy takes a step forward, falls against Harry and buries his face in the soft material of the other’s cardigan. He smells like always, like soap and bergamot and lemon and to Eggsy, it’s the most comforting smell of all. “Got too drunk with Roxy last night.”  
“I figured. ” Harry wraps his arms around Eggsy, slides one hand up until it’s cradling the back of his skull, fingers moving through his hair gently. A pleased sigh falls from Eggsy’s lips, but he’s too tired, too sick, in too much pain to care.  
“Can I sleep ‘ere?”, he asks, voice muffled by Harry’s cardigan, and the other man chuckles, presses a kiss to Eggsy’s head.  
“Of course.”  
“Can ya sleep with me? I mean. Lie down. Too tired for sex, sorry.”  
Harry pulls him a little bit closer, lets Eggsy melt against him until he’s not sure if his feet are supporting any of his weight anymore, or if it’s all Harry, who is holding him up. Eggsy turns his head a little, presses a kiss to the other’s neck.  
“There’s nothing I’d rather do, Eggsy. Nothing at all.”

%MCEPASTEBIN%

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking about adding some shorter chapters about someone else's POV - like the one with Harry - so if you'd like to see something like that about someone special - Merlin, Roxy, whoever - please let me know!  
> And from now on, I'll try and put a bit more time between the snippets of their lives, just because I'd end up with 100+k words otherwise until I can let this end, just as a warning (:


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked for one of Eggsy’s friend’s perspective, so voílá, here you go!

Rob is twenty-nine when he opens the door to reveal his girlfriend, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, still wet. She is clutching something in her hand, but he couldn’t care less.  
“Jesus, fuck, Lindsay, what’s wrong?”, he asks instead of greeting, reaching out to pull her into a hug, but she steps back just a little, almost as if she was afraid. It hurts. “Babe, talk to me.”  
She shakes her head, looks like she’s about to cry again, then whispers, “Don’t be mad.”

His heart stops, stomach drops; he knows those words, has heard them from two different girls by now – once when he was just seventeen and walked in on his then-girlfriend Natalie kissing another boy, the second time when another ex told him she had been in love with her best friend all along.  
Back then, it had hurt, of course, but this is Lindsay, the first girl he can really see himself with in ten years still, even if they have only been going out for seven months.  
“What did ya do?”, he all but whispers, thinks that maybe, he’ll be able to forgive her.

Lindsay doesn’t answer, just extends her arm and Rob, without thinking, takes what she is offering. A few moments pass in which he doesn’t understand what is happening at all, although his eyes see white plastic, an elongated shape, two little pink lines.  
“I’m gonna keep it”, Lindsay says, “I don’t care what ya say, I’m gonna keep it. Even if ya don’t wanna see either of us again.”  
He doesn’t know how long he has stayed quiet, but hearing the desperate determination in Lindsay’s voice, Rob guesses it was too long; it’s near impossible to tear his eyes away from the two lines, but he somehow manages, finds Lindsay looking at him defiantly, but still scared.  
“You’re pregnant”, he states, sounding awed, feeling relieved and at the same time terrified. “I love you.”

He has never said the words out-loud before, because it always felt like something too big, too important, too scary, like it would change everything, but now everything has already changed, and Rob means it.  
It’s obvious that it’s not what Lindsay expected to hear; her eyebrows furrow for a moment, then a smile curls her thin lips upwards, slow and relieved.  
“So ya don’t mind?”, she asks, as if she still needed to make sure that Rob really isn’t mad. “Really?”

This time, when Rob reaches out to hug her, Lindsay doesn’t flinch, just lets herself be drawn in, against his chest. She feels like always, slim and fragile, and yet it’s different, because there is a baby inside of her. Their baby.  
Lindsay’s arms wrap about his waist, her head coming to rest on his chest; there might be a few tears wetting Rob’s shirt, but that doesn’t matter.  
“We’re gonna have a baby”, Rob mutters into her blonde-bleached hair, and Lindsay makes a sound at the back of her throat, something between a sigh and a sob, happy and sad and relieved. “And now would be the right time to say that ya love me too.”

Lindsay just laughs into his shirt, and it’s as much of an answer as Rob needs.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Eggsy is twenty-eight, picks up the phone after it rang three times.  
“Mate, I did… I knocked ‘er up, I knocked Lindsay up… we’re ‘avin’ a baby. An actual baby, Eggsy, can ya believe that?”, he gasps, stutters, rambles, still overwhelmed by everything. He’s scared, more so than he can ever remember, but at the same time he’s almost ecstatic, hopeful.  
Having a baby sounds almost impossible; Rob knows that he’ll love it, but he doesn’t know about raising it, caring for it, setting a good example, giving it all that he knows a child deserves. There are days when he hardly feels like an adult himself, let alone able to take care of another human being.

“Congrats, mate”, Eggsy replies and Rob can’t help but laugh. It’s such a generic thing to say, and yet he can hear the smile in Eggsy’s voice, knows that his friend is really happy for him.  
“’s so strange”, Rob confesses, leans back on the sofa. Lindsay is in the bedroom, talking to someone on the phone. “Me dad cried when I told him. Shouted a bit too, but mostly cried. Wanted to know if we already decided on names, like, I just found out. We don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl yet.”  
“Ya can fool ‘im, but ya can’t fool me”, Eggsy replies easily, his voice sounding slightly tinny through the speakers. “There’s no way that Linds doesn’t have at least one name ready to go.”

Again, Rob laughs; sometimes he forgets that Eggsy used to be in school with Lindsay, that that is how they met in the first place, in a pub because Eggsy called her over.  
“I wish ya were wrong, bruv”, Rob admits, “She wants to call ‘er Agatha. After ‘er grandma, at least if it’s a girl. And that can’t happen ever.”  
“Agatha?”, Eggsy repeats, sounding just as horrified at the notion as Rob had felt. “Bruv, no. Seriously. Don’t let ‘er go there, it’s not worth it.”  
“I won’t, promise.”

There is a small pause, not unpleasant, just breathless, and then Eggsy mutters, “You’re gonna be a dad.”  
He sounds amazed, still disbelieving, a little bit like Rob feels when he answers, “Yeah. I know. It’s insane, innit?”  
“Absolutely.”  
“Y’know…” Rob pauses for a moment, because he wants to ask this, and but it’s hard to do so, because he thinks he knows Eggsy’s answer and yet can’t be sure. Because it feels like making everything a bit more real. “I’m gonna ask ‘er to marry me. Not today, but like, at some point. An’ if she says yes, d’ya think ya’d be me best man?”  
“Of course.” There is not a hint of hesitation in Eggsy’s voice; Rob’s heart feels a little lighter already.  
“Thanks, man. Should get back to the missus now, though. I’ll see ya ‘round, okay?”  
“Sure. I’ll text ya when I get back. And tell Linds I said hi… and congrats again, mate. You’ll make a great dad.”  
“Thanks.” Rob smiles to himself, realising just how much he needed to hear this, even if just from a friend and no one who actually knows anything about being a parent. “I’ll talk to ya later, alright mate?”  
“Yeah, ‘course. Bye and if ya go out and celebrate, drink a pint for me.”

There is a click and then Eggsy is gone, and Rob gets up, sees what the mother of his unborn child is up to.

 

Rob is twenty-nine when he leaves his boss’ office, a smile on his lips. He doesn’t like his job – who likes cleaning offices at five thirty in the morning? – but he and Lindsay will need the extra money now, and with the two more shifts he’ll get per week, at least some of it will be covered.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Lindsay is twenty-seven when they go and look at the first flat. Lindsay still lives at her mum’s, so she’s more excited than Rob has ever seen her; it’s adorable and Rob can’t get enough of watching her flit through the small flat, touch the frames of the windows, the walls, as if she still can’t believe that this is real.  
“We could put the crib over ‘ere”, she says, points at a corner in what would be their bedroom, just next to the window. “At least until the baby needs its own room, I mean. Put our bed over ‘ere and maybe my old closet next to the door?”  
“Sure, sounds nice, babe.” Rob doesn’t actually know if it does, but that’s the thing – he is living in a flat that has hardly more than a couch and a bed to offer, he never really knew how to make it a home, but Lindsay does. Lindsay seems to want to do so, has planned out everything and more, and Rob just wants to stand back and watch.

Her brows furrow, and he knows what she wants to say, so he reaches out and takes Lindsay’s hand, squeezes it tightly.  
“I mean it. Ya know I’m shit at this, ya’ve seen me flat, but I like it. And I’m sure I’ll like it even more once we’ve moved in.”  
He’s smiling, and it takes a moment, but then Lindsay smiles back, bright and happy; to Rob, she seems to be glowing all the time anyway.  
“Alright, then”, she says, then leans closer and whispers, almost conspiratorially, “But now, ya’ve got to say somethin’ really negative, okay babe? Don’t want the estate agent to think we like this one too much. Might help with the prize.”

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Lindsay is twenty-seven and they move into their first flat.  
Most of the things they carry up the narrow stairs are Lindsay’s – she’s had a far harder time letting go of her stuff, so Rob agreed to sell most of his on eBay, even if some of Lindsay’s drawers and closets and chairs remind him of the furniture in Eggsy’s sister’s room.  
They are keeping his bed, though, a huge thing made of grey-painted wood that seems to weigh at least a ton, the small kitchen table with the Manchester United stickers he and Jamal put all over it once, after too many beers and far too many years ago, the cheap curtains his mum bought, because Lindsay’s won’t fit.

It’s not even close to enough to fill the flat, but it’s a start, and although nothing of it matches, it feels a bit like home already when they all collapse on the purple sofa Lindsay loves and Rob hates quite a lot.  
Lindsay is in the hall, ordering pizza, so for once it’s just him and the boys, Eggsy, Jamal, Ryan, and Callum, who is still the new guy, although they have been hanging out for more than a year now.  
“So”, Jamal starts, picks at a thread hanging from the god-awful couch. “When ya thought about moving in with the missus, did ya ever think about having to live with something so hideous in your livin’ room?”

There is laughter and Rob groans, leans back. “Definitely not, believe me. I ‘ated that sofa ever since Linds made me sleep on it after our second date. At least my back hurt so much after ten seconds that I didn’t even think ‘bout fuckin’ anymore.”  
“I don’t believe that even for one second”, Eggsy chimes in, a glint in his eyes that can’t mean anything good. Eggsy has changed in the last few years, with that new job of his, but deep down, he’s still the same reckless, cheeky boy Rob has known for what seems like forever. “I can remember how ya looked at her the night I introduced ya to her. Like she was a fuckin’ Victoria’s Secret model.”

“That was just ‘cause that friend o’ yours, that Roxy, blew ‘im off so easily”, Callum chimes in, Eggsy laughs and Rob throws one of the equally ugly purple pillows at him.  
“Fuck off”, he says with feeling, just when Lindsay comes back, slides down onto the couch next to Rob.  
She wraps an arm around him, puts one hand on her belly, says, “Dunno what he did this time, but I’m pretty sure, you’re right, babe. Fuck off, Cal.”

Callum throws the pillow back at her, hits her arm, but Lindsay ignores him, turns to Eggsy instead. “Also, by the way, that phone o’ yours won’t stop ringing. Someone called ‘arry, maybe ya should call ‘im back.”  
“Harry? Shit, must be important then.” Eggsy looks a lot less annoyed when he gets up than Rob would be if his boss called him on a Saturday evening, but then again, Eggsy seems to like his job. “Don’t let Jamal near my pizza, alright?”  
“Oi!”  
“Promise. I’ll eat it all myself”, Lindsay answers, ignores Jamal, and Eggsy flips her off with a smile, leaves the room.

For a moment, there is silence, then Rob can hear Eggsy speak softly, as if it was something private, but then Callum gets up and asks who wants a beer, and Rob doesn’t bother to listen any longer.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and wakes up in their new flat for the first time, Lindsay snoring softly next to him. The sound of rain drumming against the windows is all around them and it’s still dark outside, but Rob catches himself thinking that this day is as perfect as they get.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Lindsay is twenty-seven, spread out on the table in her doctor’s office. There are sounds coming from the streets and the waiting room, something that sounds like a siren in the distance, and yet all his attention is fixed on the small screen, on the black blob that is his child.  
“It’s too early to say much, but it’s all looking good”, the doctor says, but he hardly hears it, hardly feels Lindsay reaching for his hand.

For the first time since his grandma died of lung cancer, Rob cries.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Lindsay is twenty-seven and they are having a son.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and proposes to Lindsay on her twenty-eight birthday. Since they have to pay for so much in the flat, new furniture and baby clothes and that gymnastics course Lindsay’s mum talked her into, the budget for presents was even smaller than usual, but Rob likes to think that he made it work.  
Eggsy told him about this nice little restaurant, _Orsini_ , where he apparently gets a discount because Eggsy knows the owners or something, and he got them a table for two, some candles and the best pasta that ever touched his tongue. Lindsay seems to like it too, at least judging by how she moans her way through the soup and the gnocchi, looking at the dishes with more love than Rob thinks she has for him.

In between the second and third course, he gets down on one knee. It's not perfectly executed, since he forgot to retrieve the small box with the ring inside from his pocket before kneeling down and has to scramble to get it out, but once Rob is looking up at Lindsay again, there are already tears in her eyes, glistening in the candle light. She has never looked more beautiful.

“Yes”, Lindsay answers, even before he can ask, but it might be better that way, because Rob thinks he might have forgotten how to speak. “Of course, yes, I will.”

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Lindsay is twenty-eight, her hair dishevelled and her skin covered in sweat when she snuggles up against him, resting her head on his chest. Short, slender fingers trace patterns on his skin, play with his chest hair, and Rob wraps an arm around his fiancée, pulls her closer.  
“Y’know”, Lindsay says, rubs her fingertip across one of his nipples, pinches it. “We can’t get married anytime soon, though.”

His heart falls, goes cold and still in his chest; this might not be refusal, but it feels a little like it anyway. “Why’s that?”  
“’Cause I won’t get married when I’m all fat and pregnant. D’ya know how wedding dresses for pregnant women look? They’re hideous.”

Rob is twenty-nine and Lindsay is twenty-eight when they spend an entire day at IKEA, picking out a crib and a nightlight and a couple of new chairs. Lindsay insists on getting a changing table for more than a hundred bucks, because the cheaper one is a shade of brown she doesn’t like; in return, Rob is allowed to get a spread to put over the sofa.  
It won’t make it any more comfortable, but he’s a happier person for knowing that he won’t have to see that particular shade of purple every day anymore.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Lindsay is twenty-eight, sleeps next to him. Her blonde hair is spread out on the pillows, her hands curled into fists and Rob sits up to look at her better.  
Lately, they haven’t gotten a lot of time just for themselves, both of them spread thin by work and the pregnancy and the ever-constant worry about money, so Rob enjoys it even more.

Lindsay’s belly is round, swollen with their child, and while she sometimes whines about not being able to wear her favourite dress, the jacket she bought last year but never got to wear because London was all rain back then, Rob loves seeing her like this. It’s a bit like saying hello to his baby the first time, brushing his hand over Lindsay’s stomach, feeling the warmth of her skin and knowing there is more than one life beneath it.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Eggsy sends him a snap far too late in the evening. He’s on the couch, an alcohol-free beer in his hand, because if Lindsay is not allowed to have fun anymore, the same has to apply to him, apparently, and his fiancée’s head on his lap when his phone buzzes.

The picture Eggsy sent is a tree, nothing special, but there is a caption saying _Maltese trees look just like English ones_. Rob looks at it for the five seconds he is allowed to, then opens the next one, even if it only shows him more of the same – more trees, more blue sky, more concrete. The caption _#disappointed_.

He sends one back of his beer, writes _Hope the drinks are better_ underneath it. When Eggsy comes back, he’ll have to ask him about Malta. Who would have thought tailors travelled so much?  
The answer comes within a minute, the picture of an empty water bottle with a sad smiley face painted on the label.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and holds back Lindsay’s hair while she throws up for the third time that day. Although the doctor’s said that the morning sickness would stop somewhere in the third month, Lindsay’s in her sixteenth week and it hasn’t gotten any better. If anything, it’s worse.  
“It's okay babe, everything’s fine, we’ll get through this…”, he murmurs softly, not really thinking about what he is saying, because he has found out that it doesn’t matter, as long as he is speaking. “It’s gonna be over soon, just a few more weeks.”

Lindsay is trembling when she finally sits back on her heels, her face far too pale; she smells of sweat and vomit, and Rob pulls her into his arms, right there on the cold tile floor, loves her just the same.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and he takes Lindsay, who is twenty-eight, to one of her seemingly endless doctor’s appointments. Usually, she goes alone, because Rob has to work, but it’s the day of the second ultrasound check-up and even Rob’s boss agreed that he should be there to see his daughter.  
He grips Lindsay’s hand and she squeezes back, rings the doorbell.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinkin’”, Lindsay says; the door opener buzzes and Rob holds it open for her to step through. “Adrian. Since I won’t get my Agatha. What d’ya think?”  
They haven’t talked about names in ages, so it takes Rob off guard – he never would have allowed Agatha to happen, even if their baby would have been a daughter– but he hasn’t thought much about alternatives yet. But Adrian… Adrian, he likes.  
“That sounds great, babe”, he says, and Lindsay beams up at him.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and sends Eggsy a picture of the ultrasound monito via Snapchat, with the caption _MY SON!!!!!_

 

Rob is twenty-nine and there’s a hand on his shoulder for just a second. He’s at work, it’s twenty minutes past five in the morning and he is met with the face of one of the few colleagues he never has really talked to. His name is Jimmy O’Donnell, he’s a couple of years older than Rob, with light hair and a pierced eyebrow; there is no actual reason why they have never become friendly like Rob has with most of his colleagues , but neither of them seems to mind it much.  
So Rob doesn’t really know what to expect, if Jimmy wants him to take one of his shifts, if there’s a dumb joke the other thinks he has to make, if he forgot to wipe down some desk yesterday.

“Yeah?”, he asks, grabs his coffee and his buckets. It’s too early for being polite.  
“Mornin’”, Jimmy greets, looks almost a little sheepish. “So, I’ve ‘eard that ya went and knocked ya girl up.”  
“Yes?”  
“’s just… ya see, me and the wife, we’ve got two lil’ girls and a lil’ boy at home, and the youngest one’s three, so if ya need some clothes, or a crib, we’ve got a few things stacked away in the garage we don’t really need anymore.” Jimmy looks a little uncomfortable, and for a few seconds, Rob doesn’t know what to say.  
It’s such a nice thing to do, and while his first instinct is to say no, not to let this almost-stranger know how hard all this is on him and Lindsay from time to time, Rob forces himself to swallow his pride. Because it is hard on them and because they need all the help they can get.

“That’d be really nice”, he answers, gives the man in front of him a smile. “We’ve got a crib, one of those IKEA ones, but if you’ve got any clothes for a lil’ boy that would be great. Linds is freakin’ about that already, although we’ve still got like two months to go.”  
Jimmy chuckles, nods. “Yeah, Maria was just the same. Even when we ‘ad our youngest one and we ‘ad all those things already.”  
“Does it ever stop?”  
“No, sorry to say.” Jimmy claps a hand on his shoulder, and Rob makes a mental note to buy him a pint after work someday. “But you’re gonna love it.”

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Jimmy brings him two bags of tiny little clothes, printed with kittens and footballs and bright night skies.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and helps Lindsay, who is still twenty eight, pack her overnight bag. It’s something her gymnastics coach told her to do, clothes for two nights and an old nightdress, her warmest socks, massage oil, the entire seven books of Harry Potter read by Stephen Fry…  
Lindsay reads the items of her list and Rob runs around to fetch them, making her laugh ever so often when he stumbles over the different heaps of things cluttering the floor.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Bridget Jones is playing on their small, crappy TV. Lindsay is snuggled into his side, her blonde hair everywhere and her lips stained with ice cream, varying between sniffling and making soft, little pleased noises.  
Ever so often, Rob presses a kiss to her head.

“D’ya think we’ll be like this too? Like, forever.”  
It takes a moment until Rob realises that Lindsay is talking to him, not just to the TV, and it’s… a strange question. On screen, Bridget is getting the man of her dreams, just like the last twelve times they have watched the movie, and Rob looks down at his beautiful, kind fiancée, who loves romcoms and Jaffa Cakes, who sometimes likes to listen to System Of A Down but usually prefers James Blunt, who forgets to dye her hair for months at a time. And he thinks yes, they could.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and when he opens the door, his mother is standing there, a bag in her hand and a hopeful smile on her lips.  
It’s just after ten in the morning, Rob has just come home from work and Lindsay is still sleeping after a night filled with worried pacing and getting up to use the loo every twenty minutes, and Rob was ready to tell a Jehovah’s witness off, but not for his mother to be waiting behind the door.  
His mother, who spent the first ten years of his life drunk and then five without even giving him a call. His mother, who he meets twice a year for an awkward cup of coffee, who he writes Christmas cards, but tries not to think about.  
His mother, who he only told about Lindsay’s pregnancy a week ago, with a single text message, because he couldn’t bear the thought of having to explain why he didn’t do it sooner.

“Um… hi”, he greets, manages to sound even more awkward than he feels. It’s a good thing that Lindsay is still asleep, because while she loves his dad, his grandma, she hates his mother. On his behalf, she always says, because Rob can’t help but love her.  
“Hello”, she says, bites her lips like she always does when she’s nervous. “I’m- you’re not busy, are ya?”  
“No, ‘s okay. Just came ‘ome from work.”  
“Good. I just wanted to come over, because, y’know. I’m gonna be a grandma. An’ I know things haven’t been all good an’ I can’t change that, not anymore, but I thought, that maybe, if ya don’t mind, if Lindsay doesn’t, then I thought, maybe I could be a better grandma than I was a mum.”

She has hardly taken a breath during that little speech and Rob thinks that she must have prepared it beforehand; she was never good with words. And it’s ridiculous, because his mother has promised him so many things before and never done any of them, and yet Rob finds himself smiling, hoping that this time, it’ll be better.  
Because his son, his Adrian, deserves a family.

“That’d be great”, he answers, thinks that he has hardly seen his mother so relieved. Lindsay won’t like it, he already knows that, but right now, that doesn’t matter.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Lindsay is twenty-eight, hisses, “Are ya fuckin’ mental?”  
They are sitting on the sofa, a cup of chamomile tea in Lindsay’s hand, and a murderous expression on her face; in hindsight, Rob thinks he should have known. Their fights have always been something between fierce and downright destructive, and ever since Lindsay has gotten pregnant, they have been even worse. And yet, he can’t regret anything.  
“Linds, she’s my _mum_ ”, he tries, because surely Lindsay will understand that, has to. “I couldn’t just tell her to fuck off!”  
“That’s what ya should’ve done though! She’s your mum, yeah, and ya know what she did to ya, I won’t let her treat our son that way!”  
“She won’t! How could she, she’s just his grandma. The only thing she wants is to come over sometimes, have a cuppa and then leave again.”

“Absolutely not.” Lindsay sets down her cup, crosses her arms. “That bitch won’t get near our son, don’t even think ‘bout it.”  
“Ya can’t just decide that”, Rob grits out, because this is still his mother they are talking about, no matter what she has done, or hasn’t. “He’s my son too.”  
Lindsay glares at him and gets up, then says the worst four words Rob has ever heard. “That’s what you think.”

 

Rob is twenty-nine and although he knows he shouldn’t believe what Lindsay said, it hurts.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Lindsay comes back two hours later, cheeks flushed from the wind outside and her hair tousled. She looks guilty and that is something, Rob supposes, but not enough, just like the paper bag from the bakery next door she puts down next to him isn’t enough.  
For a few moments, Lindsay just stands in front of the sofa Rob hasn’t managed to leave yet, one hand on her stomach, the other awkwardly at her side.

“Ya know that I didn’t mean it”, she finally says, her voice quiet and soft. She looks like she has been crying, and Rob tries his best to feel sorry for her, but it’s hard; Rob still hurts all over. “He’s yours. I swear.”  
It’s an easy thing to say, but not quite as easy to believe, and yet, Rob tries. For Lindsay, for himself, and most importantly, for Adrian.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and spends the next two nights on the couch anyway.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Lindsay is twenty-eight, comes up to him while Rob is fixing them some tea, one week after the fight. She wraps her arms around his waist from behind, which is harder now when her stomach is so round and swollen.  
A kiss is pressed on his neck, and Rob can’t help but smile, can’t help but lean back against Lindsay.  
“Hey babe”, he greets, although they have last seen each other five minutes ago, and Lindsay hums, kisses his neck again.  
“Have I lately told ya I love ya?”, she asks, and Rob shakes his head, his heart swelling just a little bit in his chest, making it tight and warm.

“Ya might’ve. But I think I’ve forgotten it already.”  
Lindsay chuckles, and Rob can’t help but smile. “Well then. I love ya.”  
“I love ya too.”

 

Rob is twenty-nine and drunk. Not unpleasantly drunk, nicely drunk, just drunk enough to make him feel warm and fuzzy and slightly affectionate.  
It’s still a week until Lindsay is due, and Rob is having a last night out with his mates in the _Black Prince_ , before his son will be there to demand his attention. Jamal is trying to chat up a girl at the bar, Ryan is getting them more drinks Jake and Callum are playing darts, so it’s just him and Eggsy around the table, three Jägerbombs between them.

“Y’know, I’m really glad for ya and Linds”, Eggsy says without warning, leading Rob to wonder if the other is far drunker than he thought. “Really.”  
“Thanks”, Rob still replies, takes another sip of his drink, cursing Jake for getting them Jägerbombs of all the things in the world. “Not gonna lie, me too. Never thought it would happen like this, but fuck, I am.”  
“Ya should be. She’s a catch”, Eggsy replies with a grin and another long drink from his glass.

“One day, ya’ll find someone too.” Rob grins, waggles his eyebrows; what he expects is a snort, a chuckle, but Eggsy looks down at his hands, almost embarrassed.  
“I kind of… have.”  
“What?”  
“I kind of have someone. Not like Lindsay, but like… my version of Lindsay. Who isn’t like ‘er at all, to be honest.”

Eggsy is still not looking at him, not for another few moments, then slowly raises his head, and Rob still doesn’t know what to say. For years, they have always told each other everything, sent texts after one-night stands and called drunk and sober and sick, and yet it feels like Eggsy has been keeping this a secret for a long time.  
How long, Rob can’t say, because nowadays it is harder to read Eggsy than it used to be; he hopes it hasn’t been too many weeks, too many months. Hopes that Eggsy still trusts him.  
“Yeah?”, he asks, tries his best to sound unassuming, not like he is holding anything against the other. “What’s ‘er name?”

Again, Eggsy ducks his head, then answers, “Harry.”  
For a moment, maybe two, Rob can’t process the information, then, before he can stop himself, he asks, “Like ya boss?”  
“Exactly. My boss.”  
“Ya boss. D’ya want to say that ya are shagging ya boss.”  
“Yeah.”  
Maybe, Rob should have known, from the way Eggsy talks about the older man, the way his voice always gets a little bit softer, his words lose their edge, no matter what he is saying, but he always thought it a mixture of gratitude for everything his boss did for him –because even Rob can tell that the older man changed the other’s life – and affection for a man Rob had thought something of a paternal figure for Eggsy. That it would be something else entirely, something romantic, he would never have guessed.

It’s only when he meets Eggsy’s eyes again, Rob realises just how long he must have been silent, tries to remedy that by blurting out the first thing he can think of: “Fuckin’ well done.”  
“What?” The other looks at him, more confused than relieved, his glass forgotten for now.  
“Well, I mean, I ‘aven’t ever met the man”, Rob starts, leans forward just ever so slightly. “But I’ve seen the ‘ouse ya got. And the shop ya work in, and if that is what ‘is employees get, then, fuck, I can’t imagine what his boyfriend will get.”

Eggsy bursts out laughing, head thrown back, and Rob can’t help but grin as well, steal a sip from Eggsy’s glass, even if the concoction of Jägermeister and beer isn’t getting better when it gets warm.  
“I’ll tell ‘im ya said that”, Eggsy finally replies, wipes a few stray tears from his eyes. “Maybe it’ll get me a new watch or somethin’.”  
“Why stop at a watch?”, Rob asks, grin turning teasing. “Get a fuckin’ car.”

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Eggsy is just as old when they stumble through the streets, drunk of their arses.  
“You’re the best”, Eggsy slurs out, and Rob laughs, feeling just as drunk as the other has to be.  
“As are ya, my sugarbaby friend.”

 

Rob is twenty-nine and wakes up only to throw up. Lindsay rubs his back, gets him a glass of water and two aspirins, but he can’t shake the feeling that she is enjoying the fact that it isn’t her vomiting out her guts for once.

 

Rob is twenty-nine and Lindsay is twenty-eight, wakes him up in the middle of the night. At first, he thinks it’s just that she can’t sleep, until he notices the hint of panic in Lindsay’s voice.  
“What’s the matter?”, he asks, taking in Lindsay’s tousled hair and her frightened, excited eyes, the hand on her stomach. “Is it- are you…?”  
“Yeah”, she answers, and there is the faintest, and yet brightest smile on her lips. “We’re havin’ a baby.”

 

Rob is twenty-nine and his son wraps the tiniest, most fragile looking fingers around his own thumb. He can’t do anything but stare, every bit of attention focussed on Adrian’s little fingernails, the warmth of his skin.  
Although he has loved many people in his life, nothing compares to this, to this fierce protectiveness, the warm affection and the complete, absolute devotion.

Lindsay is asleep in the bed next to him, exhausted and pumped full of painkillers, but Rob thinks he can feel her next to him anyway, can see the shape of her lips in Adrian’s mouth, smell her all around him.  
“Look at what we made”, Rob whispers, brushes his thumb across Adrian’s tiny fingers, careful and always afraid of accidentally hurting the boy when everything he wants to do is protect him from all that is evil, dangerous, dark in this world. “Look at our son, Linds.”  
There are tears gathering in his eyes, and Rob can’t manage to untangle his fingers from Adrian’s, so he doesn’t wipe them away, just lets them roll down his cheeks. “He’s perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be between two and three thousand words, just a little filler chapter in between, but somehow it became far, far longer and I spent far, far too much time on it.  
> Sorry for that; the next chapter (which will have at least 300% more Hartwin) is in the making, and will feature weddings and dates and maybe even a little bit of fighting, though ♥


	7. Chapter 7

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Harry is fifty-five, and together they watch Elfie walking down the aisle, Eggsy from the pews and Harry from Merlin’s side. She’s dressed all in white, her dark hair hanging down in curls and her dark eyes as bright as the sun itself. There is a bouquet of dangling ivy in her hands; just before the wedding Eggsy had asked about it and she had told him it symbolisesdnever-ending love.  
On her lips, there had been a small, happy smile, and to Eggsy, it had been the sweetest thing he had ever heard.

Up at the altar, Merlin is standing with his hands behind his back, fifty-three years old and looking sharp in the suit Harry helped him pick. He looks different than he did when Eggsy met him first, looks different to how he looked those last years, softer somehow, gentler. Happier than Eggsy has ever seen him.  
Without taking his eyes off the two, Eggsy reaches out and wishes he could take Harry’s hand, hold it tightly. Instead he reaches out and grasps Roxy’s, who is sitting right beside him.  
She looks over at him, tightens her grip slightly and Elfie reaches the altar, beams at Merlin, then leans up to peck the man’s cheek. It’s such a small gesture and yet it makes Eggsy’s heart swell because it looks so familiar, so intimate.

“Dearly beloved”, the priest starts, and Eggsy hears the first sob already, coming from Elfie’s mother, surely. The woman had already had tears in her eyes when they had been introduced half an hour ago. “We have gathered here today to unite these two people, Eleftheria Mellis and Archibald Sternwood, as husband and wife. It is a blessing and a joy to see that so many friends and loved ones have gathered to witness the ceremony and share the joy it brings both them, and me.”

The priest stops for a second, looks at both groom and bride, a smile on his lips which makes Eggsy wonder if he has known at least Elfie for a longer time, if he has watched her grow up.  
“There are lovers who meet and two years later, they are standing in front of me, ready to spend the rest of their lives together. But these two, they have waited twenty-four years. Which at least should mean that they have had enough time to make sure they really want it.”  
There are chuckles all around; Elfie takes Merlin’s hand and holds it.  
“But of course those years weren’t just sunshine and sweetness. As I was told, there were years of friendship, then years of longing before they got together, and even then, there were more than enough problems. The distance between London and Athens, the difficulties of having two so tiring jobs, of being a daughter or a son, a friend, a mentor. And yet, they managed to last this long, and surely will last another twenty-four years at least. But now, I’ll leave them to speak, since both bride and groom wanted to write their own vows.”

There are a few seconds of silence, the breathless, expectant kind, then Elfie turns so she can face Merlin, their hands still locked.  
“There is little I could say which you don’t already know”, she says and her voice is loving and sweet and a little bit nervous, all at the same time. “I could have had him, maybe”, she gestures at Harry, who laughs softly, eyes twinkling, “And yet I still chose you, God knows why, and I haven’t regretted it for a single moment. There is no one in the world I could possibly love more than I love you, and no one who could possibly make me happier.”

Eggsy can’t see Merlin’s face, but he can see Elfie’s, can see the love shining out of her eyes, the tears gathered in the corners of them, the pure, undiluted joy, and he’s almost certain that the same emotions are mirrored on Merlin’s face. It makes his skin break out in goose bumps, his throat going dry, the way they still look so happy after being together – and apart – for so long.

“You’re everything I could have ever asked for and then a bit, and I can’t promise you that I won’t ever be mad at you, or that I won’t scream; I can’t even promise that I will always love you, because I can vaguely remember promising you that I won’t ever lie to you about fifteen years ago after too many bottles of wine.” Elfie pauses, smiling fondly and Merlin chuckles, grasps her had tighter. “But I can promise you that it’s more likely that hell freezes over than that I’ll stop loving you.”  
Raising their hands to her lips, Elfie presses a kiss to Merlin’s knuckles, holds them to her cheek, and although Eggsy didn’t expect it, he thinks he can hear a hint of tears in Merlin’s voice when he starts to speak, tinting his words.

“When you told me that you wanted us to write our own vows, you know that I was less than delighted”, Merlin says, and Elfie is still beaming at him, still holding his hand like she won’t ever let go again. “I was never too good with words, and finding something worth being said here, well, I thought that it would take me hours. But in the end, it didn’t. It didn’t take more than a few minutes, because there was always just one thing I could have said to you.”  
Merlin clears his throat, and Eggsy steals a look at Harry, sees him watching with complete concentration; it must mean so much to him too, seeing his two oldest friends finally tying the knot.  
“I’ve had the ring for more than two years before I dared to propose to you. I thought about asking you to be my wife at least for ten years more, and I don’t think I’ll ever understand why it took me so long, because right now, I’m the happiest I could be. There could never have been anyone for me but you.”

Elfie isn’t crying, but Eggsy thinks it must be a close thing, and he understands it all too well. He hasn’t met the two together more than two or three times, and yet he can feel just how much love there is between them. And he knows just how he would react if Harry would tell him anything like that.  
Even the priest seems touched, and Elfie’s mother is sobbing in the very first row, almost loud enough to drown out the last few words of Merlin’s vows, the priest when he speaks again.

“Archibald, will you – well, not take Eleftheria’s hand, but keep holding it instead, and repeat after me: I, Archibald Sternwood, take you, Eleftheria Mellis, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish until we are parted by death.”  
Merlin repeats the words dutifully, not even groaning at the mention of the name he hates so much; instead every word sounds like he is treasuring the taste of it, the feeling of the syllables on his tongue.

“And now you, Eleftheria, repeat after me, I, Eleftheria Mellis, take you, Archibald Sternwood, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish until we are parted by death.”  
She finishes her vows in half the time it took Merlin, still keeping her soon-to-be husband’s hand in hers, before regretfully letting it go.  
“The wedding ring signifies to all the uniting of this man and woman in holy matrimony and symbolises the never-ending nature of their love. Are there rings to be exchanged?”  
“There better be”, Merlin mumbles, and Harry shoves him ever so gently while he steps forward, presents the rings.

“Play nice, boys”, Elfie scolds with a smile, even while Merlin takes the ring Harry is offering.  
“Archibald”, the priest butts in, stopping both Harry and Merlin from saying anything, even if Eggsy knows they wanted to. “Place the ring on Eleftheria’s finger and repeat after me: I give you this ring as a symbol of my vow and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honour you.”  
Taking Elfie’s hand again, Merlin slides the ring onto her finger and Eggsy can see it in Eleftheria’s eyes just how much this means to her. Wonders just how long she waited.

“I give you this ring as a symbol of my vow and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honour you.” Merlin sounds softer than Eggsy has ever heard him speak before, keeps touching the ring he has just put on his wife’s fingers, and Eggsy catches himself thinking that maybe, he has waited just as long.  
While Merlin and Elfie are still just looking at each other, a loving look on the woman’s face, the maid of honour steps forward, discreetly puts the ring she is carrying into Elfie’s hand.

It makes them both laugh, first Merlin and then Elfie, who shakes her head softly, almost starts speaking, before the priest interrupts.  
“Well then”, he says, eyes sparkling with mirth, “Place the ring on Archibald’s finger and repeat after me: I give you this ring as a symbol of my vow and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honour you.”  
“Yes, yes.” Elfie gently pulls her hand free from Merlin’s grip, only to take his other hand in his, sliding the ring onto his finger. “I give you this ring as a symbol of my vow and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honour you.”  
“Now the bride and groom asked for not a prayer to be spoken by me, but a few minutes for everyone to send their own good wishes and prayers to whichever god they believe in. And since I have always been too fond of my niece, I agreed. So, let us pray.”

There is a bit of shuffling all around, people bowing their heads, closing their eyes, and Eggsy watches, unmoved. He takes a moment to wish the couple in the front all the best, from now and till always, but doesn’t pray; he wouldn’t know who to.  
Eleftheria is still clutching Merlin’s hand, maybe even tighter than before, her eyes shut, while her soon-to-be husband is watching her, even if he doesn’t seem to be praying. For a few moments, Eggsy lets his gaze linger on the two of them, then he looks over to Harry, expecting to find the other looking handsome as ever in his charcoal suit, meeting his eyes with an eyebrow raised and a small smile; what he finds is the other man with his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him.  
He has to be praying and Eggsy is surprised at how surprised he is.

The few minutes the priest had announced pass quickly with Eggsy watching Harry, sometimes looking back at the almost-married couple, once or twice at Roxy, whose eyes are closed and whose brow is furrowed, his thoughts not racing but flowing at a slow, pleasant pace. It’s something he has never known about his best friend, or even his lover, but he supposes that, in their profession, it would be a nice thing to believe in someone watching out for you.

“Then, now that you have all the best wishes from all these people, and the protection of at least three or four deities, I think it is safe to pronounce you husband and wife.” The priest – Elfie’s uncle, apparently – smiles at the couple in front of him, touches a hand to his niece’s arm, before he turns to Merlin. “You may kiss the bride.”

And Merlin does.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Harry is fifty-five, pulls him close. There is music playing, some tune that Eggsy doesn’t recognise, but it’s easy enough to sway along with it, especially with Harry’s hand in his, Harry’s hand on his hip, guiding him along.  
Just a few metres away, Merlin is twirling Elfie around, making her laugh brightly, the sound mixing with the music.

They catch Eggsy’s eyes like they have done all day, will do all night; it’s as if their happiness was magnetic and Eggsy’s gaze inevitably drawn to it.  
“Do ya think we’ll be like this someday?”, Eggsy asks softly, muttering the question right into Harry’s ear, so he won’t disturb the others around them, who are swaying to the same rhythm, the same tune.  
“Married?”, the older man asks, making Eggsy laugh.  
“No. Well…” There are flashes of an imagined life dancing in front of Eggsy’s inner eye, of a small wedding somewhere in the country, of a house and maybe a garden, but most importantly, a life together, bound to each other by a ring and a shared last name. “Someday, maybe, not now. But that wasn’t what I meant.”

Harry ignores what he has just said, though, only turns his head so that soft lips are brushing over Eggsy’s jaw, teasing and sweet and as warm and the Greek sun. “Was that a proposal?”  
“What? No!”  
Again, Eggsy laughs, shoves Harry just a little bit, but thinks that maybe, it could become just that.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Harry makes love to him in a bed that belongs to neither of them, on silken sheets and surrounded by the damp, Greek heat. They’re both slightly drunk on champagne and ouzo, laugh more than they moan, but it’s perfect in its own way, comfortable and sweet and intimate in a way Eggsy has never known before Harry.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine, just an hour, maybe two older, and Harry, who is fifty-five puts a hand on his shoulder, says, “While you make me feel at least ten years younger, darling, I don’t think my refractory period has gotten the memo yet. You’ll have to wait a bit until you’ll get round two.”  
His eyes are soft, amused, and Eggsy kisses him softly before he answers, devious grin already in place. “Oh, that’s alright.”

Without giving Harry a second to react, Eggsy slides down the other’s body, trailing his lips over soft skin and still-defined muscles until he can nuzzle Harry’s hip. “I’ll just have some fun with this, then.”  
Wrapping a hand around the other’s shaft, Eggsy swallows down Harry’s cock easily, pressing his tongue hard against the underside, teasing that sensitive spot just below the head.  
“Oh, Jesus Christ, you’ll-“, Harry starts, but never gets to finish.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and thinks he might have gotten just the slightest bit of a tan from the three days they spent in Greece. Roxy calls him delusional, but Eggsy is rather certain that’s just because she is as pale as ever.

And for the first time since Eggsy began working at Kingsman, Merlin isn’t there. It's a strange feeling and one Eggsy wasn’t prepared for, because although the older man deserves a proper honeymoon, some time off duty that lasts longer than two or three days, it doesn’t feel the same to come into meetings and not be greeted with, “Late again, Galahad?”  
In a weak moment, sometime between dinner and going to sleep, he tells Harry about it, who laughs, tells him he’ll get used to it; Eggsy knows that he has made a mistake before Harry even takes out his phone.

When Merlin comes back, he doesn’t even look up when Eggsy comes to his office to welcome him, just says, “I hope you didn’t miss me too much, Galahad.”  
And laughs when Eggsy groans.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and sends Harry, who is fifty-five, a text saying, short and to the point: _Fuck you_.  
It takes some time until the other responds, enough that Eggsy has been to the gym, has showered and gotten dressed again, when his phone buzzes.  
_Love you too_ , the text says, _Dinner tonight? My treat._

The few words are enough to make him smile, especially because they haven’t seen each other much since they got back from Greece, Harry busy with catching up on paperwork and Eggsy busy in Argentina, in Germany, in France. So he agrees, naturally, and wonders if, had he been really angry, he could have stayed mad at Harry if he had tried.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Harry takes him home after work, not allowing Eggsy to drive the car, like he always does. Something about scratches and a mission in Guam three years ago, nothing important, really.  
Harry parks in front of the house, looks over at him with a smile and the light reflecting on his skin, his hair, which is threaded with grey; Eggsy only noticed it a few weeks ago.  
“I thought you could maybe come over on Wednesday, spend the night?”, Harry asks, and Eggsy nods his head enthusiastically. “I might ask Merlin to come by for dinner, he’s been moping ever since Elfie went back to Athens.”

“Sounds perfect.” Eggsy unclasps his seatbelt, leans over to press a kiss to Harry’s lips. It’s short and sweet and Eggsy wants to ask Harry to come inside, wants to cuddle up with him on the couch and fall asleep against the other’s side, when he sees the light shining out of the windows, the shadows moving inside.  
His mother is home, and there is no way they can just spend the night the way Eggsy wants to.  
“Then I’ll be at yours at, what, seven?”, he asks, and Harry nods, reaches out to put a hand on Eggsy’s knee, squeezing it a little bit. Harry doesn’t say anything, but it’s clear he wants to come in, wants to spend a little bit more time together.

“Y’know, I wish I ask ya to come inside”, Eggsy explains awkwardly, rubbing his fingertips over Harry’s knuckles. “But my mum’s home and…”  
_And I still haven’t told her about you_ , is what he doesn’t say but thinks, what Harry must think as well. It’s horrible, makes him feel more than just guilty, because it’s been months and there were tens of thousands of times he could have told her about them already and didn’t, even if he still can’t say why.  
“Of course”, Harry answers after a second, polite and kind as always, but Eggsy knows him well enough by now to see the disappointment. “I’ll see you on Wednesday then. “  
“Yes”, Eggsy answers, is both relieved and disappointed. “You will.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and rings Harry’s doorbell with a bottle of wine in his hand. It’s a rosé in a plastic bottle, one which hurts even Eggsy’s taste buds just by looking at it.  
It takes Harry a few moments to open, an apron tied around his waist and a smudge of flour high on his cheekbone, but a fond smile on his lips.  
Eggsy kisses it off him the second he can, getting flour all over his own skin too.

“’Lo, handsome”, he greets once he has pecked Harry’s lips not once, but thrice. “Brought ya something. The cashier actually tried to talk me outta buying it, can ya believe it?”  
He presents the bottle and Harry groans before he has even read the label, but there is a twinkle in his eye, which makes it obvious that he enjoys the little tradition they have by now just as much as Eggsy does.  
“I can”, he answers dryly though, but takes the bottle anyway, even if holding it as if Eggsy just had handed him a racoon he had run over on the way there. “That cashier was doing God’s work and you wouldn’t listen.”  
“Ah, always ya toffs and ya expensive shite.”  
Eggsy grins and Harry pretends to go all dark and menacing, threatens, “I’m going to make you drink a glass of this after dinner. Not just a sip, an entire glass.”  
“You wouldn’t! That’s probably considered torture in most countries by now.”  
“You brought that onto yourself, boy.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Daisy is seven, looks adorable in her purple dress and her patent leather shoes, her hair done up in pig tails. It's her first day at school, and she’s more excited than Eggsy has ever seen her before, bouncing up and down next to Eggsy and their mum, who is just about able to hold back the tears.  
“Will ya be a good girl for me, luv?”, she asks, and Daisy nods , looking far more serious than a girl her age should. Sometimes Eggsy wonders if she can still remember Dean, how it was before they had a fancy new house and enough money to put more than enough food on the table every night.  
He desperately hopes she can’t.

“For me too?”, Eggsy chimes in, and Daisy smiles, nods again. “Well, then c’mon, give us a hug.”  
And there is no stopping her; Daisy almost leaps at them, tiny arms wrapping themselves around Eggsy’s waist, his baby sister’s face hidden in the folds of his tracksuit jacket.  
“Oh sweetheart.” Putting a hand on Daisy’s head, Eggsy holds her tightly for a few moments before pulling back, crouching down so they are on the same level. “’s gonna be fine, you’ll do brilliantly. Get all smart and pretty, like ya mum, okay?”

The words make Michelle laugh and Daisy smile, before her face goes back to the seriousness from before. “I will, Eggsy. Promise.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and picks Daisy up from school again, takes her to get some ice cream and listens to every story she wants to tell.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and his mother’s gaze lingers on the mark on the side of his neck, the one Harry sucked onto his skin after both of them had come last night, just holding Eggsy in his arms. There hadn’t been a reason for it, no moans he had been trying to draw from his lips, no extra strength Harry had wanted Eggsy to put into his thrusts, and it’s marks like that which he treasures the most.  
The kind that just exist to remind Eggsy and the rest of the world who he belongs to.

 _It wasn’t a girlfriend_ , he still wants to say, because he hates lying to his mum, and yet it’s been so long that he doesn’t know how he should tell her that he isn’t shagging Roxy, but his boss, who is older than Michelle is herself, and that he hasn’t been this happy with anyone ever before, so he just looks away, pretends he didn’t notice.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Rob calls him from the hospital. He’s in Japan, cleaning blood off his knuckles and neck and knives, unsure what time it is, but judging from the excitement in his friend’s voice, the other doesn’t know either.  
“He’s so small”, Rob whispers into the phone, because Adrian is asleep and he doesn’t want to wake him. “I’m so afraid I’ll break ‘im, Eggsy, everythin’ about him is tiny and fragile an’ it makes me feel like I’m one o’ them trolls from Lord of the Rings.”

It’s been more than thirty hours since Eggsy has last slept and yet he can’t help but laugh, feel happy because Rob sounds so awed, so scared and yet so excited.  
“Ya won’t”, he tries to reassure the other, because he knows what Rob is feeling, has gone through the exact same thing when Daisy was born. “He’ll be fine, those kids are sturdier than they look.”  
“Ya sure? ‘Cause he definitely doesn’t look sturdy.”  
“Absolutely. I’ll come by as soon as I can, ‘kay? Take a look at what ya two produced.”  
“Sure, anytime-“ There is the soft sound of a baby crying out, and Rob stops mid-sentence, changes his invitation to, “Shit, gotta go, Adrian just woke up. I’ll see ya round, ‘kay?”  
“Absolutely. Now off ya go, dad.”

Rob chuckles, and Eggsy is still smiling. “Thanks, Eggsy. Bye, and tell ya man to finally get ya that car.”  
“Will do. Tell Linds and Adrian that I said hi.”  
“Sure. An’ now bye, gotta go and take care of my boy.”  
“Bye, Rob.” The line goes dead and yet Eggsy keeps the phone pressed to his ear a little longer, wonders just when exactly they started to grow up.

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Roxy comes back from a mission in Kenya, successful and covered in blood and still looking guilty. He doesn’t know why for a far too long time, until she knocks at his office door with two cartons of take-out and a six-pack of beer under her arm.  
That much beer is never a good sign.

“What’s with all that?”, Eggsy asks before she even had time to sit down, and Roxy shrugs, falls down on the seat in front of him. There is still blood clinging to her skin, just below her ear.  
“It’s been a while since we had time to catch up”, she tries, but it’s half-hearted, only makes Eggsy raise an eyebrow and wait until she continues. “….and I kind of have to tell you something.”  
“Well then, on ya go.”  
They’ve been friends for long enough that Eggsy doesn’t wait until Roxy offers the food to him, only grabs the carton closer to him, delighted and a little bit worried when he opens it and finds lamb korma inside; his favourite.

“It’s something that I should have told you a few weeks ago. At least.”  
“Yes?”  
“There’s a guy. I mean, I’m seeing someone.”  
Eggsy stops, his plastic fork raised. Maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise, since it’s been quite some time since he last heard of horrible blind dates and meet ups gone wrong, but it is, because he assumed that Roxy had just given up, at least for now. Was waiting for the right man to find her instead of going out searching herself.  
Maybe he should have asked.  
“What?”, he asks now, weeks too late at least. “Who?”

“Don’t laugh.” Roxy glares at him although he has done nothing wrong yet. “His name’s Harry. As well. He’s thirty-three, an accountant and I met him on the internet, one of those dating websites you keep making fun of.”  
“Like Tinder?”  
“Eggsy, Tinder has been out of business for more than a year. You old fart.”  
“Oi!” Still, Eggsy is laughing, considering if he should go and throw some soggy rice at Roxy, who looks relieved, almost as if she was floating. “But go on now, tell me all about this Harry. Your Harry. Is he yours?”  
“Yeah”, Roxy answers after a second has passed, a sweet small smile on her pretty lips. “Yeah, he is.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and Roxy is finishing off her Chicken Tikka Masala, talking around the food in her mouth in a way Eggsy knows her mother would have scolded her for. He doesn’t, though, because it’s adorable, how suddenly all this information is bursting out of her, like she has been keeping her Harry secret for far too long.  
“Like, I know that most people would probably think he’s boring, I mean he actually does book keeping as a way to relax, but I love that. I love that he doesn’t run around saving the world all day, and that the most exciting thing he usually texts me about is office gossip and that, if someone challenged him to a fight, he would probably turn around and run. He’s… safe. Normal. And I didn’t know I needed that, but I do.”

She pauses, takes a sip of beer and Eggsy would have a thousand things to say, but keeps quiet for a little longer, because this is her time to talk, not his.  
“He feels like someone I could settle down with someday, who would watch the kids and take me out for dinner and a movie occasionally and rub my feet when I come home. It’s like… remember what you said about Harry, ages ago? That he feels like he’s _it_ , the one. My Harry isn’t quite that, but he’s close enough. He’s everything I want right now. And that is enough, isn’t it?”  
And Eggsy takes a moment to consider, and then says, “Yeah. Yeah, Rox, I’m pretty damn sure it is.”

 

Eggsy is twenty-nine and shows up on Harry’s doorstep that night uninvited. The other is already in his pyjamas when he opens the door and Eggsy feels just a little bit guilty, mostly relieved.  
“Oh hello, darling, what brings you here?”, Harry asks and Eggsy steps closer before answering, hugs the older man tightly.

“Did something happen?”, he continues when Eggsy doesn’t speak, always Arthur, always concerned, and Eggsy just shakes his head slightly, presses a kiss to the other’s neck before he pulls away.  
“Nah, just wanted to see ya”, he answers, feeling a little sheepish, maybe, for catching Harry off guard like this. _I missed you_ , he really wants to say, but doesn’t, because it would sound silly; they have seen each other just a few hours ago. “Can I spend the night?”

And Harry’s face softens, goes from worried to happy in the matter of a second. “I’d love you to.”

 

Eggsy turns thirty and Roxy insists they get drunk together and watch movies they loved in their childhood - Roxy picks _Mary Poppins_ , Eggsy _Aristocats_ , Roxy chooses _Princess and the Beast_ and Eggsy makes her sit through 93 minutes of _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_.  
They share too many beers and more shots of Sambuca than he can count, and Eggsy forgets to text his mum when he takes a cab back to Harry’s place, stumbling over the doorstep and right into his lover’s arms.

It’s just past eight in the evening, and Harry looks down at him with a fond, little smile and his hair in disarray.  
“Eggsy”, the other greets, brushes his hand through Eggsy’s hair, then down his back, until it settles on his hip. “Hello. I was hoping to see you tonight. How was your time with Roxy?  
“Great!” His vowels are a little too stretched and his consonants forgotten somewhere, but Eggsy doesn’t really care. “She gave me Sambuca an’ we watched movies. It was great.”  
“Oh dear.” Harry chuckles and pats Eggsy’s back, who decides that holding his head upright isn’t worth the effort, instead lets it fall back against Harry’s chest, breathing in the other’s scent. “Do you remember what happened after the Sambuca last time? What you said?”

Eggsy’s brows furrow while he thinks, coming up with nothing and finally shaking his head, waiting for the older man to enlighten him.  
“It went approximately like this”, Harry answers, clears his throat before continuing with what has to be the worst impression anyone ever did of Eggsy. “ _Oh Harry, darling, love o’ my life, I’m dying, Sambuca has t’ have come literally from ‘ell, I won’t ever touch this shit ever again. Hold me, I think the end is near_.”  
It’s almost impossible not to laugh, so Eggsy hides his face in Harry’s chest, trying to muffle the sounds, before he answers. “Must’ve been joking.”  
“I don’t think so, but I’ll gladly remind you again tomorrow.”

He’s still smiling, doesn’t know if he could stop if he tried, so he just wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and holds him tight. The other chuckles softly, the vibrations tickling Eggsy’s cheeks; a second later, there are arms around his shoulders, warm and heavy, making him feel safe and content.  
It feels like coming home.

“Thanks”, Eggsy whispers after another few moments, not knowing what he is thanking Harry for except for everything – his life, his trust, his love. Sometimes, it’s still almost too much to take in, to believe.  
Harry’s arms tighten around him, there are lips pressed to the crown of his head, and Harry whispers, “Anything for you, darling, anything at all.”  
And that, Eggsy can believe.

 

Eggsy is thirty and Harry is fifty-five, freezes mid-motion when Eggsy asks, “Harry, when’s ya birthday?”  
It’s something he has been wondering for quite some time, but never got around asking, both because it seemed strange after having known each other for so many years and because he wasn’t sure how Harry would react. After all, there had to be a reason not to let him know.  
And apparently there is, because Harry doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t continue petting his hair, and Eggsy almost regrets saying anything already.

“Well…”, Harry starts after a few more, tense seconds have passed, his fingers slowly starting to thread through Eggsy’s hair again. “It’s…”  
He doesn’t seem to know just what to say, so Eggsy asks the only other question on his mind, even if he hates considering it. “It isn’t that you’re afraid o’ getting’ older, is it?”  
It’s an absurd thought, Harry who is all confidence and all strength but afraid of age, still it’s the only thing that makes sense to him, especially now, when Harry is trying to stall and not answer.

But Harry chuckles, runs his fingers through Eggsy’s hair again, his touch more confident now, less distracted. “No, not that.”  
Another moment passes, then another, and then Harry continues. “It’s silly, I know it is, but I’ve never been particularly fond of celebrating birthdays, and ever since you… happened, I suppose, I absolutely lost my interest in them. Because all those numbers, those twenty-six years between us… it just reminds me that I’ll have to leave you one day.”  
Harry sighs, scrapes his fingernails over Eggsy’s scalp in the best way possible, and it feels like he is trying to find the words for something that Eggsy thinks he almost understands.

“I’ll never be the young man you’d deserve”, Harry says, and Eggsy wants to tell him no, tell him to stop, because Harry is everything he deserves and more, but he doesn’t, because he wants to hear all that Harry wants to say.  
“I’ll never be able to grow old with you. Grow old, yes, but unless something happens, which I cannot even bear to think about, you’ll be my age now when I die. And it… breaks my heart to think about it, it does. It breaks my heart to think that you’ll have to watch my body fail, that you’ll have to watch me forget more and more, that you’ll have to watch me… fade, for the lack of a better word. And because I might be heartbroken, but still too selfish to do anything about it, I try to ignore all of it as long as I can.”

By now, the fingers have stopped combing through Eggsy’s hair again, but he hardly ever notices, too distracted by the pain in Harry’s voice, the love he feels for the other man, the sadness which suddenly poisons the air between them.  
“The easiest thing, it seemed, was to just try and forget that I am getting older at all. And that meant trying to forget about my birthdays, which was easy, since apart from Merlin, hardly anyone knows the date anyway. I never thought about that you would notice at some point, I’m sorry.”

Eggsy’s chest is too tight, is burning, and it takes a few moments until he manages to sit up like he wants to. The other isn’t moving, so Eggsy moves until he can look at Harry, see the desperate ache hidden behind his eyes.  
How he could not have noticed it before, he doesn’t know, but it hurts almost more than what Harry said, the fact that the older man had to carry all this weight alone until now. Because Eggsy, young and rash and thoughtless as he is, has never considered all of this, has never thought of more than how he wanted them to spend their lives together.  
Up until now he has never minded the twenty-six years between them, but suddenly, from one second to the next, he does.

Harry doesn’t look hopeless, just resigned, a little bit tired, and Eggsy can’t think of any words to say, so he does the next best thing, throws his arms around Harry and holds him close. The older man is tense, but relaxes within a few seconds, buries his face in the crook of Eggsy’s neck.  
It’s one of the first times that Eggsy has seen Harry vulnerable, defenceless, maybe even defeated, and it hurts and at the same time, makes everything easier, because suddenly, he knows exactly what he needs to say.  
“Alright then”, he mutters into Harry’s hair, tightens his grip around the other’s neck. “No more birthdays for us. Who needs those anyway? ‘s just a day, and it’s just another year, and as long as it’s a year I get to spend with ya, I don’t care when it ends.”

Against his arms, Harry tenses once more, undoubtedly preparing to speak, so Eggsy refuses to listen without even having heard what it was Harry wanted to say. “Nope, decision’s mad. We’re timeless now, Harry. We’re forever.”

 

Eggsy is thirty, and his thirtieth birthday is the last one he will ever celebrate.

 

Eggsy is thirty, tired and warm and sleepy, his head pillowed on Harry’s chest when he realises that Harry was talking about spending the rest of their lives together. Not as a possibility, but as a fact, as if there was no other way things could turn out.  
For Eggsy it always was, but to find out that Harry thinks so too is getting like every birthday present he’ll miss at once.

 

Eggsy is thirty and wakes up because Harry is shaking him gently, a cup of tea in his hand.  
“Good morning, love”, he greets while Eggsy is still trying to focus his eyes on the other’s form, blinking blearily at Harry. “I didn’t want to wake you, but your mother has been trying to call you for an hour, so I thought it might be important.”  
“My mum…?” It takes, two, three seconds, then Eggsy is sitting upright, suddenly knowing exactly what is wrong. Usually he tells his mum if he won’t come home that night, even if it means having to deal with her knowing glances and secretive smiles, even if it means having to feel like he is lying.  
But between Sambuca and Disney movies and Harry he forgot all about it, just thought about them being eternal, about Harry’s smiles and later, the other’s mouth, his hands.

“Oh shit.” Eggsy gets up, almost bumping into Harry when he tries to find his trousers, his shirt, his jacket, all in the matter of ten seconds. “She probably thinks I’m lyin’ in some ditch somewhere, at least drunk and possibly dead.”  
“I see.” Harry watches him, half a smile on his lips and the cup still in his hand until Eggsy takes it, downs half the contents in two large gulps, burning his tongue in the process. “I’ll see you later then?”  
“Absolutely.” Eggsy pulls down his shirt, ignoring the fact that his mouth still tastes like shit in favour of pecking Harry’s lips; leaving without even one kiss sounds impossible. “I’ll come ‘round as soon as I can. Have to make the most of the rest of our life after all, right?”

For that, he gets a real, bright, fond smile; it makes leaving so much easier.

 

Eggsy is thirty, unlocks the door quietly although he knows that his mother is up already. By now, it’s a reflex almost, something he doesn’t have to think about anymore.  
“Mum?”, he calls out when there is no one rushing to see him, wanders into the kitchen when he hears pots and pans clanking, the faint murmur of the radio.

Michelle is standing with her back to him, oblivious to his presence until he taps her shoulder, causing her to whirl around.  
“God, Eggsy-“ She’s pressing a hand to her chest, as if to calm a racing heart, and Eggsy grins at her sheepishly; he didn’t want to frighten her. “Ya should have some mercy on ya poor old mum, givin’ me such a fright…”

“Sorry.” Eggsy leans down, kisses her cheek, making her chuckle. “But you’re not old, just…matured.”  
“Now ya just bein’ sweet.” She turns around for a second, gives the pot a quick stir before facing Eggsy again, her face still calm and sweet, but her voice a little accusatory. “But where were ya last night? I brought fish an’ chips an’ that posh beer ya like so much, thought we could have a nice chat and watch a movie or something. Celebrate ya birthday.”

Although he knows that it’s a little ridiculous – he is thirty years old, he shouldn’t have to tell his mum whenever he stays out a night – Eggsy can’t help but feel guilty, at least a bit.  
“Sorry”, he mumbles, not quite looking at her. “I meant to call, but I was at Rox’s an’ we watched movies and I just forgot, I guess?”  
Her eyes soften, and they are back at the secretive smiles and the seemingly innocent questions.  
“Ah yes, ‘course”, his mum answers, all sweetness again, all hope. “Young love, no wonder that I’m not that interesting anymore. But really, ya have to introduce me to that mystery girlfriend of yours one day, I’m dyin’ to meet her.”

“It’s not a girlfriend.” Eggsy doesn’t know what makes him say it, not after he has kept Harry a secret for such a long time, but it seems right to say it, maybe because now he knows that they really will last. “It’s… It’s a boyfriend.”  
Although his mother wasn’t moving before, Eggsy can see her freeze, obviously surprised, if not shocked.

A few moments pass without either of them speaking, a breathless, tense silence, then Michelle says, “Ah. Well. The most important thing is that ‘e makes ya happy.”  
She still looks a bit taken aback, but she is smiling, and it’s such a relief that suddenly, it’s not enough. Suddenly, Eggsy has to tell her everything, thinks of Roxy for a second, of how everything seemed to gush out of her at once.  
“He’s my boss”, Eggsy say in a rush, the words jumbled together, as if he needs to get them to leave his lips before he can change his mind.  
“What?”  
“My boyfriend. He’s my boss. I’m dating Harry, from the shop…”

He is smiling, he knows it, because if his mum doesn’t mind the fact that he is dating another guy, then surely this won’t be a problem either, and the age difference she will just have to get used to. And really, it has to be the most important thing that Eggsy is happy with Harry, that he couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.  
“What.” But this time, there is no hint of question in Michelle’s voice, no happiness either; she sounds emotionless, unmoved. “Ya boss. Gary Unwin, are ya out of ya _fuckin’ mind_?”  
Her face changes, goes from blank to furious in the matter of a few, short seconds, and Eggsy takes half a step back without thinking.  
“What the ‘ell were ya thinkin’? Ya boss, the man who pays for all o’ this and ya go and sleep with ‘im? What happens if ya break up? We’re gonna be left on the streets! We don’t even have the flat anymore, now, just this and once he’s done with ya, we won’t even have that anymore.”

Of all the things Eggsy thought he would have to explain, this was never one of them, so for a few seconds, he stays silent, unblinking, unsure what to say. “It’s not… he wouldn’t do that, mum, he’s a gentleman. Even if we’d break up. Which we won’t.”  
He knows that his mum is just scared, for all three of them, and yet it doesn’t change a thing when she answers. “That’s what ya say now. That’s what I would’ve said about Dean too, a couple o’ years ago, when he told me he’d take care o’ us. _Oh no, we won’t ever break up, and even if so, he wouldn’t ever kick us out. He’s a good man._ And ya know how that ended.”

It’s too much, too personal; Eggsy’s blood is boiling before she can even finish her sentence, his fists clenched so hard his nails are digging deep into his palm.  
“Don’t ya dare say that”, he hisses, every muscle in his body tense, ready to attack, to defend the man who gave him everything to the woman who gave him his life. “Don’t ya dare to compare him to that scumbag, don’t ya even dare to think about it. Harry might not be the best man in the world, but he loves me and he wouldn’t ever, ever do that to us.”  
“O’ course. Tell that to Daisy once we’re livin’ on the streets.”

It’s a step too far, a bit too much to take; all Eggsy can do is not shout, not scream. “Know what? Fuck you. I hope ya like the house a lot, because ya won’t be seein’ me here again.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and the tears only come when he’s in the cab to Harry’s place. He doesn’t even bother wiping them away.

 

Eggsy is thirty and Harry is fifty-five, pulls him into his arms before Eggsy even gets to say a word.  
“It’s going to be alright”, he mutters into Eggsy’s hair, his arms slung around his shoulders.  
There is something impossibly calming about the smell of soap and washing detergent, about the warmth of Harry’s skin, hidden beneath his clothes.  
“How would ya know?”, Eggsy asks, in between of half-sobs and shallow breaths.

“Because you’re here”, Harry answers without missing a beat, pressing a kiss to the crown of Eggsy’s head. “And I will do everything to make it so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this took ages, and I am super sorry for that; hopefully the next chapter will be a little bit easier to write. Especially because I think I'll try to post slightly shorter chapters from now on, if I can somehow make myself stop writing 10k all at once, both to make it a bit easier to find time for reading them and so you won't have to wait months for an update.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading and let me know what you think! ♥


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

Eggsy is thirty years old and spends the night wrapped in Harry’s arms. They’re both undressed, although neither of them thinks of sex; Eggsy just needs to feel the other’s warmth, needs to get as close as possible as he can to Harry.

How long it’s been since they have moved from the door to the sofa to the bed, Eggsy can’t say anymore – somewhere between half-suppressed sobs, the need to just cling to Harry and the darkness that encompasses them now, he has lost his sense of time. It doesn’t seem to matter though, although Harry’s fingers have stopped carding through his hair, his breath has gone deep and steady.  
It might be silly, but to Eggsy, it feels as if he has given up his mother for this, to have Harry’s arms around him and his heartbeat loud against his ear; it might be sillier, but Eggsy knows he would do it all over again.

 

Eggsy is thirty and asks, “Harry?”  
It’s still dark around them, and Harry must be asleep already, but he tries it anyway. And the other stirs, his arms tightening around Eggsy’s shoulders for a moment before relaxing again.  
“Yes?” Harry’s voice is still soft with sleep, the edges worn down, but it’s more than enough for Eggsy, who isn’t even sure what he wanted to say, just knows that he wanted to hear the other’s voice.  
“’s nothing, really, just… I dunno. I feel like shit.”

It’s the complete truth, and yet Eggsy chuckles as if he had just made a joke; Harry tightens his hold around his shoulders again, pulls Eggsy closer still. Like this, tangled up together under the covers, it’s almost stifling hot, and yet Eggsy nuzzles the crook of Harry’s neck, slides his arm across the other’s stomach until they are touching as much as they possibly can.  
“I’m so sorry, darling”, Harry mutters, brushes a kiss to the crown of Eggsy’s head. He doesn’t say more, but that’s alright; there doesn’t seem to be anything he could say that would make things better after all.

“It’s just so unfair”, Eggsy adds after a few moments which pass with just the sound of their breathing, their heartbeats mixed together, “She knows I’m happy with ya. She said so herself, talked about wantin’ to meet my mystery lover an’ all, but when I tell ‘er about ya, she flips. Like, it shouldn’t matter who I’m happy with, should it? Just that I am.”  
Harry hums, and at first, Eggsy thinks it will be the only reply he’ll get, but then the other turns slightly, pulls his arm back so he can look at Eggsy in the faint, faint light of the street lamps outside. His hair is mussed up, his eyes half-lidded, but there is still something about Harry’s face that makes Eggsy’s breath hitch, his nerves fire twice as much as they used to.

“I understand her, actually”, Harry says softly, carefully, continues before Eggsy can say a word. “If you were my son, I’d try everything to keep you safe as well. To make sure you’re always happy, never want for anything. And me as a partner… I can’t promise either.”  
“But-“  
“No, darling, let me finish. No matter what you say, or feel, objectively, I will always be too old for you. I’m your boss, the one who provides for everything, and although we both know that I would never take anything away from either you or your family, I could. If I wanted to, I could take the house and your income, all of that, from you.”  
Harry pauses for a moment and Eggsy wants to say something, desperately even, but keeps his mouth shut, because it’s clear that the older man isn’t yet finished.  
“She doesn’t know me, can’t even know that I don’t just want to use you for a year or two until I find someone else. So I understand your mother in that aspect. What I won’t ever understand is that she didn’t run after you and begged you to stay. Because you would have deserved that.”

The whole evening, Harry hasn’t said much about Michelle at all, just held Eggsy, let him talk and shout and once, cry, but now he looks earnest, like he had been just waiting to say all of it out-loud. And it makes sense, it does, even if Eggsy hates all that it implies, and even if it doesn’t excuse half the things his mother said.  
“She still… she should’ve trusted me. I told her ya weren’t like that, but she wouldn’t stop and I couldn’t let her talk about ya like that.”

In the almost-darkness, Harry leans in and brushes their lips together in a sweet kiss, ignoring that both their breaths have turned sour, and Eggsy makes a sound at the back of his neck that he would have been embarrassed by mere months ago.  
“You could have”, he mutters, still almost against Eggsy’s lips, but there is a smile hidden in his voice. “But I know that I would gladly smash anyone’s face in, who dared to utter a bad word about you, so I don’t think I have any right to judge.”

The words make Eggsy laugh softly despite himself, put a hand onto Harry’s cheek and stroke three fingertips across the older man’s cheekbone. It isn’t much, but it makes Eggsy feel just a little lighter, just a little bit less shaken, because Harry loves him and that means so much.  
“You should try to sleep now, darling”, the other murmurs and Eggsy finds himself nodding, although he doesn’t know if there is any possibility of him falling asleep anytime soon. “We’ll work out the rest tomorrow.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and Harry is fifty-five, wakes him up with tea and still-warm croissants from the bakery two blocks down. They have breakfast in bed, which is one of the luxuries Harry hardly ever allows, hardly speak, but trade a few butter-flavoured kisses.  
Afterwards, Eggsy spreads out on the sheets again, ignoring the crumbs and the tea stains and Harry who fusses with the plates and mugs, temporarily storing them on the nightstand.

“So I guess I’ll have t’ start hunting for a flat then”, Eggsy states after a few moments of silence. “It’s strange ‘cause I’m thirty already, but I’ve never done that before.”  
Next to him, the clanking and cluttering stops, and Eggsy turns around to see what Harry is doing, finds the other man with a disturbingly high tower made of plates next to him and two mugs still in his hands.  
He doesn’t quite look nervous, but he isn’t far from it.  
“About that…”, Harry starts, and Eggsy feels like he should sit up, really look at him, but doesn’t. “If you want to find a flat, I will help you in any way possible, of course. In fact, I think there are a few Kingsman-owned flat which aren’t currently used for anything, so I am sure you could have one of those… but there would also be the possibility of just staying here. With me. If you want to.”

Now, Eggsy does sit up, unsure if he has heard correctly, if Harry is asking him this, hands full of tea mugs and his eyes hopeful and yet just a little terrified.  
“Like… move in with ya? Are ya asking me to move in with ya?”  
“I am.”  
“And not just… y’know. Because ya feel sorry for what happened last night.”  
“Oh heavens, no.” Harry puts the mugs down, gives Eggsy a smile that looks almost sheepish, adds, “I’ve been wanting to ask you for a good few months, I just never really knew how to.”

Eggsy doesn’t answer immediately, doesn’t do that to either Harry or himself, instead takes a moment or two to think about waking up next to the other every morning, about taking turns doing the grocery shopping, about sharing a house, a life.  
And answers, “Yes. Fuck, yes, Harry. Absolutely.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and Harry is fifty-five, blows him until Eggsy sees stars, lets Eggsy jerk him off afterwards, leaving them both boneless on the mattress.  
Although he’s sticky and in dire need of a shower, Eggsy snuggles closer to Harry; he can’t think of anything but that this is going to be his bed now, too.

 

Eggsy is thirty and his mother isn’t home when he lets himself into the house. He isn’t sure if he is glad for it or disappointed, if he wants to see her again or can’t stand the thought of it.  
It’s a strange feeling, walking through the house he knows so well and not knowing when, if he’ll see it again, but Eggsy takes a deep breath and starts to unfold the boxes he brought to help with the moving.  
Better to get it over with quickly.

Harry had offered to come with him, help with everything, but he had declined the offer, both because he was scared of his mother and the older man meeting and because it felt like this was something he had to do himself.  
Now he regrets it a little, wishes he could reach out and take Harry’s hand, squeeze it tightly, but it’s too late now.

So he walks to the living room and packs the books that belong to him, his PlayStation, the pillow which Daisy gave him last Christmas. It’s a sunny yellow, has the both of them painted on the pillowcase by little children’s hands and Eggsy loves it dearly, takes care to store it safely in one of the boxes.  
He leaves JB’s basket, his bowl – as much as he would like to take the pug with him, he knows just how fond his sister is of him, couldn’t take him from her. And after all, someone has to protect her now that Eggsy isn’t there anymore.

 

Eggsy is thirty and doesn’t even manage to fill up all the seven boxes he brought, wonders what that says about his life.

 

Eggsy is thirty and Roxy gives him a hug, undoubtedly smearing the remaining grease from the pizza they had into his sweater. He doesn’t mind it much, though, just hugs her back, burying his face in her sweet-smelling hair for a moment.  
“Thanks for the help”, he mutters and Roxy chuckles, pulls back with a smile on her lips.  
“Anytime, babe. I think you’ll be happy here. But please, try to get him to take that damned dog down, that was probably the scariest piss of my entire life.”

Eggsy cannot help but laugh, answer, “Ya know, I’ve been trying to do that basically since we met and yet, it never worked. But I’ll definitely continue trying.”  
“You’re fighting the good fight, soldier.” Roxy grins, then waggles her eyebrows, says, “And now I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone to christen the new home. But just if you promise to spare me of any details at all. I do want to be able to look my boss in the eye tomorrow morning.”  
“Tomorrow morning?” Eggsy raises an eyebrow, smirks. “What do you mean, tomorrow morning? I doubt either of us will still be able to walk tomorrow.”  
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Unwin.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and while he can walk the next morning, there is a pleasant ache going along with every step. He would complain, but Harry sends him a text to complain every time he sits down, so he doesn’t quite dare to.

 

Eggsy is thirty and goes to sleep in his new bed, his new home for the second time and it feels like the first night in the rest of his life.

 

Eggsy is thirty and puts the picture Harry gave him for his twenty-ninth birthday of his father and the older man onto one of the drawers in Harry’s- no, their – bedroom, changes the angle three times before he is satisfied.  
His boxes are still packed, because unpacking takes time and would make all of this very real all of a sudden, so this is the first thing about the house which is his, and it makes everything feel a bit more like home.

 

Eggsy is thirty and Harry is fifty-five, hands him a file with a tired smile. As far as he knows, the older man hasn’t come home last night, so he isn’t surprised, only makes a mental note to tell Merlin to make sure that Harry gets his rest while he is away.  
“Somethin’ gross?”, he asks, and Harry looks almost amused.  
“Unfortunately a little bit. Another human trafficker down in Qatar.”  
Eggsy pulls a face, can’t help but, because he hates these missions. At least he can punch all these people in the throat, repeatedly. “Do I have to?”

Harry laughs softly, puts a hand on Eggsy shoulders and squeezes. “I wish you didn’t, but I can’t play favourites, as much as I want to.”  
“Goddamn. At least give the next one o’ them to Tristan, will ya?”  
“I promise.” Harry’s voice is soft and his lips are too, when the other leans in and kisses him, just barely licking into his mouth. “Come home safe, will you?”  
He says home and Eggsy’s heart flutters a little bit. “I will, promise.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and comes back home safe, but feeling like death itself. He hasn’t slept in what feels like the entirety of the eight days he was away, has gotten punched and stabbed and shot at repeatedly, has punched and stabbed and shot even more often, and the only thing he can still think of is how badly he needs to lay down and just sleep.  
The front door is locked, so Eggsy doesn’t care about being loud – it’s barely past nine, so he guesses that Harry is still at some meeting, overdoing it like always.

Toeing off his shoes, Eggsy sets down the bag containing the blood-splattered clothes he wore during the mission, mourning the fact that Harry wasn’t at HQ to kiss him hello. He understands, of course, the older man has other things to do as well, but he can’t help but miss the warmth of Harry’s arms around him, the sound of his voice.  
After all they haven’t managed to talk more than twice in those past days, and that although a day Eggsy spends without the other is far too much already.

They’ll see each other tomorrow, though, Eggsy tells himself while he drags his tired body upstairs, too exhausted to even think about brushing his teeth.  
When he pushes open the door to the bedroom (it’s still not quite theirs, not quite his, especially not after having been away for so long), he expects to find it silent, dark, but instead one of the lamps on the nightstands is on, illuminating the room just enough to allow Eggsy to make out Harry’s form on the bed. The other looks up, a soft smile on his lips, puts down his book.  
“Oh, I didn’t hear you coming in darling”, Harry greets him, sits up straighter and pulls back the covers, an invitation.

“Why aren’t ya at work?” Eggsy doesn’t move for a second, then does, all but falls down onto the mattress next to Harry. He feels calmer almost instantly, the softness of the mattress and the familiar smell of detergent and Harry’s cologne letting the remaining tension bleed out of Eggsy’s muscles.  
The other pulls him closer before he answers, and Eggsy lets him, snuggles into the warm embrace.  
“I wanted to be home when you got back”, Harry explains like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and coming from him, it sounds like it.  
“Thanks”, Eggsy mumbles, feeling his eyelids drooping already, his thoughts slowing down until he is hardly thinking anymore at all.  
“Anytime, my dear. And now, sleep, you deserve it.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and wakes up in an empty bed, but with a note on the pillow next to him, telling him to stay home, sleep, eat and that Harry will be home with take out and a movie later.

 

Eggsy is thirty and Roxy is just the same age, looks a little nervous when she takes a sip of her drink. It’s a little bit adorable and Eggsy can understand it so well; he never had to introduce his boyfriend to her, thank God, but he knows that he would have been just as nervous about her meeting his Harry as Roxy is about him meeting hers.  
“At least I know one thing they’ve got in common now”, he comments when Roxy checks her phone again. “Fuckin’ unpunctual Harrys.”

“Mine was late to our first date”, Roxy admits with a sigh, pushes a hand through her hair. “Fucking ridiculous.”  
“I think our dates were the only things ‘e was never late for”, Eggsy replies, “Must mean it’s true love, I guess since he stood up the fuckin’ prime minister before.”  
“It’s a good thing mine doesn’t- oh, there he is.”

Eggsy turns around, expecting to see someone tall, dark and handsome, but instead there is a man with a mop of ginger curls approaching them, a wide smile plastered to his face.  
“Hello, gorgeous”, he greets and leans down to kiss Roxy softly, just a peck, completely chaste; when he pulls back, there is a smile on Roxy’s face as well, as if his had rubbed off on her. It’s almost sickeningly sweet.

“And you must be Eggsy.” The other Harry straightens, extends his hand and Eggsy shakes it, takes the chance to look at him a little bit more closely.  
He’s quite handsome, in a boyish sort of way, with blue eyes and a hint of stubble, dimples when he smiles. Not Eggsy’s type, but he thinks he knows what Roxy sees when she looks at him.  
“Absolutely”, Eggsy replies, watches the other Harry sit down next to Roxy. “How many times did Roxy have to remind ya of the extra s?”  
“Just about twelve time, _Eggy_.” Harry’s smile turns mischievous and Roxy chuckles; Eggsy likes him already.

 

Eggsy is thirty, just a little bit past tipsy, says, “’M just gonna call ya Haz, alright? Harry’s too much the name I cry out in bed, if ya know what I mean.”  
Roxy in front of him chokes on her beer, wheezes, “ _Eggsy_!”  
But Harry – Haz – in front of him just laughs, holds out his pint to clink glasses. “Sure thing, _Gaz_. Although I can’t say that I ever shagged anyone who was called Gary, or Eggsy, for that matter, before.”  
“Well, we could work on that”, Eggsy replies with a cheeky little wink, and Roxy loses it again.

 

Eggsy is thirty and stumbles back home, right into Harry’s arms. It’s far too early to be this drunk, he knows that and yet can’t even pretend to care; at least this time, there was no Sambuca involved.  
“Are you alright?”, Harry asks, obviously amused at Eggsy, who has landed on top of him, crushing the book Harry was reading under his thighs. “Did you have fun?”  
“Yeah”, he mutters against the side of Harry’s neck, starting to feel tired already. “Ya still my favourite Harry though.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and misses Daisy quite terribly.

 

Eggsy is thirty and in Sweden, Princess Tilde gets married.  
He sees the pictures in the papers first and then again when Merlin sends him an email with even more of them, clearly meaning to annoy him. She looks radiant, her dress white and so tight that Eggsy can’t help but reminisce for a few second, her blonde hair pinned up so the elegant line of her neck is nicely accentuated.  
If anything, she looks more beautiful than Eggsy remembered, and he makes sure to abuse his power and privileges as a Kingsman agent to send her a card to congratulate her.

 

Eggsy is thirty and Harry turns fifty-six. There are no parties, no romantic dinners, just a night spent on the sofa, watching old reruns of The Great British Bake Off until they both fall asleep.

 

Eggsy is thirty and Tristan gets injured in Somalia.  
He never liked the other man and yet worries about him, brings flowers when Tristan is flown back to England, tries to console the older man’s girlfriend who can’t seem to stop crying. She refuses to leave the room as long as her boyfriend is still comatose and Eggsy’s heart aches a little bit for her, because he knows how she feels, can remember.

 

Eggsy is thirty and Harry is fifty-six, raises an eyebrow when Eggsy walks through the door, clad only in one of Harry’s robes. The other is already in bed, under the covers, and Eggsy bites his lips, just a tiny bit nervous.  
In one hand, he is clutching a few yards of soft silk rope, in the other a bottle of lube which Roxy recommended – cinnamon-scented and supposedly heating up at skin contact.  
“What’s all this?”, Harry asks, just curious, not unkind and Eggsy shrugs.  
“Thought we could try somethin’ out if ya want to?”

“Will it be me tied down, or you, love?”  
Eggsy can’t help but smile with relief, feel the tension leave his body because Harry seems so unfazed; he has the feeling that Harry would agree to it, no matter which answer he’d give.  
“How ‘bout ya just lay back and let me work my magic?”, Eggsy asks back with a grin and Harry makes a show of doing just that, not once breaking eye contact.

The sight makes Eggsy feel just a little bit weak-kneed, because although he had of course hoped that the other would go along with his little plan, seeing Harry like this, spread out on the bed, waiting for Eggsy to do his worst, is almost a little bit too much for him to take.  
He takes a deep breath, then makes his way over to the bed, crawling onto the mattress so he can straddle Harry’s chest. The older man’s hands come up to rest on his thighs, slipping underneath the soft fabric of the robe.  
“Nope, no touching”, he gently scolds, takes one of Harry’s hands and pulls it up to the headboard. “Hold onto that for a sec, would ya?”

There is amusement glinting in Harry’s eyes, along with a hint of lust, but he does as he was asked, squeezes Eggsy’s thigh one last time before pulling his hand away and holding onto the heard board. The movement makes the muscles of his chest flex and shift and Eggsy can’t help but watch, captivated as always.  
Harry possesses a kind of physicality which Eggsy has never seen before, a certain grace, a hint of danger, deadliness which lingers underneath every motion, ever gaze. It’s tempting, beautiful, and something Eggsy is sure he won’t ever get enough of.

He might end up staring for a bit too long, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind much; the only clue that he even notice is the slight curve of his lips. Getting back to the task at hand, Eggsy loops the rope around the bars of the headboard before he starts to secure Harry’s arms, fingers lingering on the other’s skin for a bit too long.  
“You need to make that a little bit tighter”, Harry comments before Eggsy is even finished with the first knot, his face too close for Eggsy not to drop a kiss to his lips when he looks down. “I’m a trained spy, if you want to have me at your mercy, you’ll have to do better than this.”

There is something about the way the other words it – _have me at your mercy_ – which goes straight to Eggsy’s cock, makes him shiver and tighten the knot immediately, not missing it when Harry’s breath hitches.  
He quickly ties Harry’s other wrist to the head board as well before he tests the knots, sits back so he can admire his work.

There is no way to deny it – seeing this powerful, lethal man spread out underneath him, vulnerable, causes a surge of power to rush through him, making Eggsy feel lightheaded, his cock twitching under his robe.  
“I think I could get used to this”, he mutters with a smile, draws a finger down from Harry’s cheek to his chest. The other’s skin is warm and there is fire hidden in Harry’s eyes, so Eggsy leans back in, presses a kiss to his cheek, lets his lips wander down the line of Harry’s jaw, then his neck, varying between nipping at the skin and placing soft little kisses on it.  
“So could I.”

The words make Eggsy chuckle, stop his little journey down Harry’s body for a moment to kiss his lips again, barely licking into the other’s mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind.”  
Harry arches up a little from the bed, wordlessly asking for another kiss, and Eggsy gives it gladly, presses Harry deeper into the mattress when he flattens his body against the other’s, one hand supporting his weight, the other one sliding up Harry’s side. The kiss deepens just slightly before Eggsy pulls away again, not because he wouldn’t enjoy kissing Harry any longer, but because this is not what this is about.  
This is about making Harry fall apart.

So he ignores the tempting pink colour of Harry’s lips and instead starts kissing his neck again, sucking faint bruises onto the skin and listening for the inevitable changes in Harry’s breath, the sharp sucking in of air and the shaky exhales.  
Against his hip, he can feel the older man starting to harden.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Eggsy starts to slide down Harry’s body, peppering kisses on the other’s collar bones and the hollow of his throat, sucking on one of Harry’s nipples to draw a moan from his lips. It works like a charm like every other time, so Eggsy drags his teeth just so over the sensitive nub, making Harry hiss.  
“Jesus, Eggsy” he gasps and Eggsy does it again before looking up at the other, a smug grin on his lips.

The grin freezes on his lips the second their eyes meet, though, because Harry’s gaze is heated, like molten lead, and Eggsy can feel it burning right through him, setting him on fire. His cock twitches pathetically, and all Eggsy can do is suppress a moan before he leans back down to suck a mark on Harry’s chest, just above his heart.  
Again, Harry moans, but Eggsy doesn’t allow himself to get distracted this time, presses a soft kiss to the reddened skin before leaving a trail of kisses down the flat plane of Harry’s stomach, paying extra attention to the scars scattered across smooth skin.

He doesn’t know all of their stories yet, although he is fairly certain that one day, he will, but he’s glad for every one of them, because they all mean that Harry is still alive, still breathing, still healing.

By the time Eggsy reaches the hem of Harry’s pyjama pants, the other man is fully hard already, breathing heavily, and Eggsy tears himself away from Harry, so he can look down and see what a mess he has created.  
Harry is looking up at him with half-lidded eyes, his skin shining with spit and littered with marks, some fiercely red, some barely there. He looks devastatingly handsome as always, and utterly claimed.

This time, it’s Eggsy who curses under his breath. His hands are pulling Harry’s pants down before he can think about it, revealing the thick, hard cock Eggsy wanted to get his hands and mouth ever since they started this.  
So he doesn’t waste another second, leans back down and licks a stripe up Harry’s cock before sucking the head into his mouth. Even now, he can taste precome, and the thought that Harry enjoys this just as much as he does makes him groan, the vibrations travelling from his lips to the other’s cock.

Harry’s hips snap upwards, make him gag a little bit, and although he is half moaning his words, Harry apologises. “Jesus, sorry, love.”  
He could pull off to answer, but Eggsy goes for the easier approach of showing Harry that no apologies are needed – he looks up at the other and rolls his eyes, then sinks down onto his cock until the head is hitting the back of his throat. It’s almost too much, but it makes Harry moan again, hands curling into fists where they are uselessly bound to the headboard, and God, that is worth it.

Sucking hard, Eggsy rises, then swallows Harry’s cock down again, setting a slow, teasing rhythm. After all, he, doesn’t want to let Harry come in his mouth when he could come inside of Eggsy instead.  
By now, he has had more than enough practice to know exactly where to press his tongue, when to bring his hand between the other’s legs to cup Harry’s balls, massaging them; he would never have thought so, but it’s a feeling a hundred times better than having to explore his lover’s body for the first time. It’s not exciting anymore, but familiar, intimate, and that is worth so much more.

Within a few bobs of his head, Harry is breathing heavily, soft moans escaping him whenever Eggsy flattens his tongue against the underside of his cock or swipes his thumb over the sensitive patch of skin just behind his cock. It takes all Eggsy has in him not to start humping the mattress, his own erection aching between his legs.  
He goes on until he can hear the desperation in Harry’s moans, the lust, then pulls off, smiling when the older man lets out a frustrated moan.  
“Patience, babe”, he mutters and steals a little kiss, knowing that it’s the only thing that keeps Harry from answering. “I’m gonna take real good care o’ ya.”

“You’re going to be the death of me”, Harry mutters fondly, and Eggsy smiles, gets up on his knees to slowly untie the belt of his robe, letting it fall open before wrapping a hand around his own, leaking cock.  
Harry sucks in a breath, arms straining against their bonds and Eggsy feels his cock twitch at the sight.  
“I’m gonna ride ya”, he tells Harry, whose cheeks are flushed, whose lips are bitten, kissed red. “Just as fast or as slow as I want to. Even thought about puttin’ one o’ those cock rings onto ya, so I could have ya as long as I wanted to.”  
It hadn’t been more than a fleeting thought back then, quickly dismissed for maybe being a bit too much, but Eggsy doesn’t miss the darkening of Harry’s eyes, the precome leaking from his slit. The sight makes his own breath hitch, gives his voice a darker tone when he continues, “Ooooh. Kinky. Never thought ya’d be into that, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

Harry’s hips snap up, seeking friction, and Eggsy gasps, tightens his grip around his cock, knowing just how good it would have felt to have Harry inside of him, fucking into him like that.  
“Eggsy”, the other breathes out, his voice deep, almost dangerous, and Eggsy shivers, not surprised anymore that it turns him on to think of how lethal Harry is when he wants to be.  
“Yes?”, he asks, gives himself another teasing, slow stroke, the friction still enough to make him moan.  
“Ride me.”

It’s a simple request, close to an order, and although it should be him in control, Eggsy obeys without thinking, scrambling to get the lube he dropped next to him on the mattress open. The air is filled with the scent of cinnamon within seconds once he has squeezed some of it onto his fingers.  
By now, they’re both too impatient for Eggsy to make them wait, so instead he just wraps his hand around Harry’s cock, starts spreading the lube.  
“Feels good?”, he asks when Harry starts moaning, watches the other nod. Against his palm, he can feel the lube heating up, can only imagine how it would feel on his cock, inside of him.

It doesn’t take long until Eggsy can’t take it anymore, shrugs off the robe and moves so he can position himself over Harry’s cock, wanting to force himself down onto it, feeling the stretch and the fullness. They don’t do this often enough, don’t usually have the time to draw it out, make each other see stars even before they come.  
“Eggsy, wait-“  
The words make him stop mid-motion, the head of Harry’s cock pressed against his hole, nothing but delicious torture. “What?”  
“Don’t want to hurt you, you need to prepare yourself”, Harry breathes out, and Eggsy’s heart swells in his chest at the words, because he can hear just how close Harry is to breaking, and yet he worries about Eggsy. He doesn’t answer, though, just drops down on Harry’s cock, forcing nearly all of it into himself in one, swift movement.

It makes both of them moan desperately, Eggsy’s fingernails digging painfully into his own thighs while his body relaxes around the thickness of Harry’s cock, accepting it.  
“You little shit”, Harry gasps out, and Eggsy can’t help but laugh, the contractions of his muscles around the other man’s cock making Harry moan.  
“Didn’t want to waste time with preparation once I had ya like this”, he explains, rolling his hips experimentally and gasping when the movement makes Harry’s cock rub against his insides in the most delicious way.

“You’re going to be the death of me”, Harry repeats and Eggsy maybe would answer if he wasn’t too distracted by pushing himself up on his knees and falling back down on Harry’s cock, ignoring that it still stings a little in favour of doing it again.  
The friction is enough to make him moan, gasp when he can’t get out even the simplest sounds anymore, because Harry has started to snap his hips upwards whenever Eggsy grinds down onto the other’s cock, doubling the force.

He sets a pace that is neither fast nor slow, but allows Eggsy to take the other’s cock deep, rubbing across his prostate ever so often and sending a surge of pleasure through him. It makes his toes curl and his breath come in gasps, Harry underneath him trying to reward every of his hoarse moans with another snap of his hips.  
The other man’s arms are straining against the rope, obviously aching to touch, and it’s that what makes Eggsy slow down before he stops moving altogether, just enjoys the fullness of Harry inside of him.

There is a desperate whine coming from Harry, one of the sort he will forever deny making, and Eggsy smirks, contracts his inner muscles before letting them relax again. It’s not quite enough to get him off, but can’t be anything but torture for Harry, who is biting his lips now, every muscle in his body visibly tense.  
Once more, Eggsy contracts his muscles, letting out a breathless moan when pleasure sparks deep in his core, travelling up his spine. Harry is still suppressing the sounds Eggsy knows he wants to make, so he does it again, finding a rhythm of clenching around Harry’s cock that makes his body sing with pleasure. He’s still longing to start moving again, but for now, this is enough.

His cock is leaking precome, so Eggsy loosely wraps a hand around the shaft, gives it a few strokes, not meaning to get himself off, before swiping his thumb over the head, collecting the liquid collected there.  
Before bringing it to his lips, he makes sure that Harry’s eyes are on him, that the other is watching him suck his thumb into his mouth.

There is a smirk on his lips, even while he is swiping his tongue around the pad, cleaning off his own precome, and it’s enough to finally break Harry’s resolve, who makes a breathless sound, desperate enough to make Eggsy’s cock ache in sympathy.  
“God, please, Eggsy”, he mutters and Eggsy, who wasn’t quite sure what he was waiting for knows now, leans forward to brush a kiss to Harry’s lips. The changed angle makes him gasp, roll his hips before he can think about it, and Harry moans into his mouth, nips at his bottom lip.  
“Please”, the other repeats, and Eggsy finds himself nodding before he pulls back, sets a fast, almost cruel pace that sets his insides on fire.

He’s all but bouncing on Harry’s cock, forcing it into himself faster and deeper until everything else seems to have lost its meaning; there’s only the two of them.  
Eggsy’s hands are roaming freely over the other’s chest, needing the leverage as much as the contact and it doesn’t take long until Harry is close. He can feel it in the way the other fucks up into him, can hear it in Harry’s moans and see it in the blush on his cheeks, the tension in his muscles. And God, Eggsy wants to feel him come.

Wrapping a hand around his cock to stroke himself, Eggsy grinds down on the other’s cock even harder, taking Harry so deep it almost hurts and yet only spurs him on.  
Two, three, four more times Eggsy forces himself down on Harry’s cock and then the other is coming, spilling deep into him. He fucks up into Eggsy, and it’s enough to push him over the edge as well.  
Pleasure explodes inside of him, intense enough that Eggsy forgets how to think for a moment, is just animalistic instincts, grinding down on Harry’s cock and trying to take as much pleasure as he possibly can from the other.

It seems to take an eternity for Eggsy to come back to himself; when he does, he’s still rolling his hips lazily, come covering both their stomachs. Harry is watching him, looking dazed, even with his hands still tied above his head and Eggsy gives him a soft, sated smile, clenches down around his cock one last time, before he slips off it with a hiss.  
His hole is pleasantly sore, and although Eggsy wants nothing but to lie down and cuddle and let Harry take care of his bonds – there is no way Eggsy could tie him up in a way that would really prevent the other from escaping, should he try – he reaches out to do it for him.

There are faint marks on the other’s skin from having struggled, and Eggsy unties both of Harry’s wrists before laying back down, bringing one of them to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to the red lines.  
“Wanted to touch me that badly, huh?”, he asks, kisses Harry’s wrist again before intertwining their fingers instead.  
“Always”, Harry answers and pulls him closer. He’s warm and Eggsy knows they both need a shower, but ignores that completely, just melts into Harry’s arms, eyes drifting shut.

“We should do this again”, he mutters sleepily after another few seconds and feels Harry nod. “’S gonna be me tied up, innit?”  
Another nod, and a thumb that swipes over his knuckles and Eggsy continues, “Ya gonna make me pay for this, aren’t ya?”  
“Absolutely”, Harry answers, and his voice is hoarse, but warm, loving.  
“Lookin’ forward to it.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and there is are three Tupperware boxes in the kitchen at HQ filled to the brim with Baklava. There is a little note attached to it, saying _Enjoy,_ agapi mou _and share with the other boys_  
and girls in dreary England. xx Elfie  
Although he has heard wild tales of Eleftheria’s cooking skills, Eggsy takes one of the sticky pieces and pops it into his mouth, surprised at the burst of sweetness, the pieces of nuts that crunch between his teeth when he chews.

It’s a lot better than expected and Eggsy makes sure to write a little note back, hoping that Merlin will tell Elfie about it.

 

Eggsy is thirty and Rob gets married. It’s exciting enough as it is, his childhood friend and his former schoolmate tying the knot, but even more exciting because on the invitation Eggsy receives three weeks after Rob has invited him on the phone, it says _+1_. And next to that, in Rob’s messy handwriting, are three words. _Bring your man._

So Eggsy does.  
Harry looks as handsome as always in his suit, even if he has foregone the tie and left the first two buttons of his shirt open to make it look at least a little more casual after Eggsy had told him that Rob had bought his suit in a charity shop a week before the wedding, and yet Eggsy can’t help but feel just a little bit nervous.  
He has never introduced Harry to any of his friends, so this is big somehow, and he supposes it’s the same for Harry, even if the other man looks as calm and collected as always. But what kind of spy would he be if he couldn’t fake that?

The wedding itself is just like Eggsy expected it to be – short and to the point, impersonal, because that is how weddings are in real life, not in Greece in a beautiful setting, with the bride’s uncle as a priest. Rob and Lindsay look happy enough, though, and little Adrian only starts to cry once it’s all over, hitting tiny fists on his grandma’s arm while his parents kiss and exchange soft words.  
It’s sweet to watch and Harry takes Eggsy’s hand when they leave the hall, intertwines their fingers.  
“They seem very happy”, he comments and Eggsy nods.  
“’s nice to see. Especially because I’ve seen Rob with so many girls and still he never looked at ‘em like he looks at her. Makes it seem special somehow.”  
“As it should be.” Harry shoots a smile his way, small and sweet and a little bit secretive, squeezes his hand.

The reception is held in a pub that belongs to one of Lindsay’s uncles, a small thing that’s almost squashed between a Tesco’s and a laundromat, dirty from the outside but decorated with enough care and love inside to make it almost pretty. There are pink roses on every table, little pictures of Rob and Lindsay and Adrian printed out and stuck to the walls, a buffet set up at the one side of the room and a table to leave the presents on the other.  
Eggsy puts their present down first, a voucher for a weekend in a resort not far from London, available whenever, because Eggsy knows for a fact that they do not have the money for a proper honeymoon, especially not now with Adrian.

The gift was Harry’s idea, actually, but it’s better than anything that Eggsy could have come up with after having known Rob for all his life and Lindsay for more years than he can count.

Slowly, people start to filter in, and while Eggsy hardly had any time to talk to anyone before the wedding, he sees more familiar faces than he thought he would now – Ryan and Jamal and Cal, of course, but also Suzy, Elaine and Fatima from school, Benjamin, who Eggsy hasn’t seen in ages, but who used to live two next to Rob when they were all just teenagers.  
Harry must notice it too, because he smiles at Eggsy, nods at the bar. “Go on, I’ll get us something to drink and you can catch up with your friends.”

“Thanks, babe.” In a perfect world, Eggsy would have the courage to lean up and kiss Harry like he wanted to since they got here, but it isn’t, so he just gives the other a grateful smile, makes his way over to the happy couple, the people crowding them.

“Congrats”, he tells Rob before he can say anything else, watches the other’s grin get even wider, if that is possible.  
“Thanks. Got the prettiest wife in the world, don’t I?”  
“Absolutely. Ya look stunning, Linds.”  
“Thanks.” Eggsy is speaking the truth and nothing but it, because she’s glowing, all blonde hair and shining eyes, dressed in white tulle and far too many rhinestones. She looks happy, blissful even, like this has been everything she has been waiting for since she was a little girl. Maybe it is.  
Lindsay takes Rob’s arm and wraps it around her waist, leans into him, then seems to remember something important. “Rob said ya brought ya fella?”

“Ooooh!” Suddenly Jamal, who had been trying to subtly check out Lindsay’s cousin Chloe, seems a lot more interested in their conversation, looks at Eggsy expectantly. “Where’s he at?”  
Eggsy chuckles, feels the tips of his ears go red – one of the things even Kingsman wasn’t able to train out of him. He’s not embarrassed, and yet he doesn’t know what to expect; Rob knows about their age difference, and he is fairly certain that Lindsay does too, but he only told Jamal the basic facts about Harry, just like Ryan, like Callum.  
“Oh well. Yeah, I did. He’s over there, at the bar. Grey suit, looks incredibly out of place, probably lecturing Linds’ uncle on his beer selection.”

Almost at once, all of them turn around, including Eggsy, whose ears grow even hotter; they can only see Harry’s profile as he leans over the counter, telling the barkeeper something, but they’ll have to know who he is talking about. The other people lounging around the bar are either known to them or do not fit the description at all.  
For a few moments, there is the kind of tense, breathless silence which Eggsy associates with the moments before someone does something incredibly stupid, then Lindsay tears herself away from Harry’s form to look at Eggsy, her eyes wide.

“Fuck, dude”, she starts and Eggsy isn’t sure what will follow, if it’ll be shock or admiration. “He looks like he owns a small country or somethin’. Or like he could at least buy one if he wanted to. Fuckin’ well done.”

And somehow, she’s right, because Harry does – in fact, Eggsy doesn’t know if he could, he might – but it still makes Eggsy smile, his heart suddenly so much lighter.  
“And yet he hasn’t even bought our Eggsy a car”, Rob chimes in, playfully slaps him on the arm. He must have seen that Eggsy was nervous, because he gives him an encouraging smile, which Eggsy returns gratefully.  
“I’ll get him to one day, just ya wait.”  
“That’s my boy!”

 

Eggsy is thirty and Harry is fifty-six, lets him unbutton his shirt even further, because that little sliver of skin has been teasing him for the entire day and too much of the night. It’s difficult to work the small button through the hole with the amount of alcohol flowing through Eggsy’s veins, but he manages somehow, makes a little triumphant sound when the offending garment falls open, exposing more of Harry’s chest.  
His skin is warm under Eggsy’s fingertips, under his lips when he leans down to brush a kiss over one of the many raised scars, tasting salt when he darts his tongue out.

Harry’s hand comes up and pushes through his hair, softly but firmly guiding him away, until Eggsy’s head is resting on his shoulders. It’s better than nothing, but not good enough to keep Eggsy from whining.  
“We’ll be home soon”, Harry says in reply, and he would seem absolutely unaffected if his hand wasn’t sliding up Eggsy’s thigh, coming to rest just above his crotch.  
“Good, ‘cause otherwise I’d have to suck ya in here”, Eggsy mumbles, kisses Harry’s neck and feels the other’s pulse jump under his lips.  
“I’ll let you use that green vibrator on me later if you shut up right now and don’t drive me to thinking that is a good idea.”

Harry’s voice is still soft enough the taxi driver won’t hear even while he is promising the nicest things (because if there is one way to drive Harry completely mental within seconds is to use any kind of vibrating toy on him), still gentle, but Eggsy can hear the slight edge, the hint of heat in it; although he would like to see if he could really get Harry that desperate, he nods, agrees.  
He’ll get Harry twice as desperate later, just to make up for it.

Still, Eggsy doesn’t sit up, just stays slumped against Harry, taking the other’s hand off his thigh to lace their fingers together.  
“Your friends were lovely, by the way”, Harry says after a few seconds have passed and Eggsy has already started to plan the rest of the evening. The words make him snort, squeeze Harry’s hand.  
“Ya just sayin’ that ‘cause managed to beat everyone at dart and made them buy ya drinks.”  
“I have to admit that was a bonus.”

Harry’s voice sounds amused, a little mischievous but Eggsy is still glad that he approves of the company he keeps, just like he is glad that none of his friends seemed to have any objections when it comes to Harry.  
“Ya a menace”, he tells the older man, nuzzles his neck.  
“And you’re the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and wakes up to the sound of the shower running, his muscles aching pleasantly. There is no way he has gotten enough sleep, but he can’t bring himself to regret it for a single seconds, not when the memory of Harry moaning and writhing underneath him is still fresh enough to make him shiver with delight.  
Maybe, if he’s really lucky, Harry will feel up for round three later after breakfast.

The sound of the shower stops and for a moment, Eggsy is reminded of the first time they slept together, of Harry’s eyes dark with lust and his skin wet, of how easy everything had suddenly been, of how exciting a single touch had felt.  
It’s a good memory, one of his best, and yet what is even better is knowing how far they have come since then, that there are more nights they spend in front of the television now than having wild, passionate sex, that most their kisses are chaste and sweet, that they share a home now.

It takes Eggsy a few seconds until he registers what he has just been thinking, but when he does, he can’t help but smile. Because it’s home now, this house, and that means everything at once.

 

Eggsy is thirty and Roxy turns thirty-one and for the first time since they have met, they do not spend the evening of her birthday together. There had been a slight blush on her cheeks when she had told him about the plans her Harry, Eggsy’s Haz had made, and Eggsy had thought it adorable, both that Roxy was so embarrassed and that she was so obviously happy about having a lover to spend the evening with.  
And after all, it doesn’t mean that they don’t get to see each other, only means that it’s five in the afternoon and Eggsy is sipping white wine out of a plastic cup while he watches Roxy fix her make up.

It’s a fascinating process, watching her colour and highlight and accentuate, to see the Roxy who has opened the door for him while dressed in sweatpants and an old Disney t-shirt transform into this gorgeous creature, who could cause knees to weaken with a single glance.  
“…and he won’t even tell me where we are going, which sucks, because I need to know to pick the right dress, you know? I asked him and he just shrugged and said whatever I’d wear would be fine, which is exactly why I usually don’t let men choose the restaurant. It’s too fucking risky.”

How Roxy can pluck her eyebrows and complain at the same time is a small mystery to Eggsy, but one which doesn’t stop him from answering. “But isn’t it, ya know, nice to be surprised and all? He obviously put thought into it, planned everything… I love it when Harry does that, at least.”  
“Because you only have to put on your suit and you can go pretty much everywhere, no matter if it’s McDonald’s or Alain Ducasse.” Roxy puts down her tweezers and takes another pencil, starts to fill in her eyebrows instead, her eyes softening even while she is drawing. “…but yeah, it is nice. He’s thoughtful and I know I’ll have fun, but it’s so different, so strange somehow too.”  
“Tell me about it. At least you know how to behave in those places, when Harry starting takin’ me there I still considered Nando’s to be fancy.”

It makes Roxy laugh, her shoulders shaking slightly while she tries to somehow keep her hands steady enough to continue her work. “If he takes me to Nando’s I might have to kill him.”  
“Aww. Don’t be such a toff.” Eggsy takes a gulp of wine, sets down the cup to pour a lot more into his and a little more into Roxy’s. There is no reason why he should have to stay sober, just because she does.  
“Eggsy, I am a toff”, Roxy answers, looks up from her mirror with one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I was born a toff and I will continue toff-ing until I am dead.”  
“Don’t be so harsh on yaself. I’m sure ya can still learn:”  
This time, there is no answer, just Roxy throwing her eyebrow pencil at him.

 

Eggsy is thirty and Harry sends him off to the Philippines with a kiss and the promise to have let Eggsy choose which kind of take-out they’ll get once he returns.

 

Eggsy is thirty and there are three men running after him, shooting at him. He’s got his suit, but still he can feel every single impact like a blow to his back, to his thighs and arms, knows that he has to be covered in bruises by now.  
There used to be eight men before he took the other’s out, but he’s run out of bullets by now, and Merlin in his ear has run out of ways for him to hide.  
“Just keep moving lad, I’ve sent back up”, the other man is telling him, obviously trying his best to sound calmer than he is. Surely it’s supposed to make him feel better, but it does the opposite – if Merlin isn’t screaming at him anymore, isn’t cursing, it has to be looking more than bad.

Eggsy wishes he could hear Harry’s voice, even if just for a few seconds.

“I’ll do my best, guv”, he tells Merlin instead, hisses when another pullet hits his shoulder. “Left or right?”  
“Right.”  
His heart is pumping too fast, his lungs aching with the sharp gulps of air he keeps sucking in, but Eggsy still tries his best to speed up, turns around the corner. It’s another hallway, one which ends just a few metres in front of him, just two doors to choose from.  
He could, maybe should, wait for Merlin’s command, but he doesn’t, just barges into the first one and closes the door.  
It’s an office, tiny and impersonal, just a desk and a single shelf; from outside, Eggsy can hear the sound of footfalls, of shots.

There’s a window in front of him, they’re in the third floor and Eggsy makes his choice in the matter of a second or two.  
“Tell Harry I won’t make it home for dinner”, he tells Merlin, then decides that it’s not the time to try and be funny, not when he is ripping open the window and the ground is far too far away, not when he might not get to tell Harry all rest anymore. “Tell him I love him.”  
“Eggsy, no-“, Merlin starts, but Eggsy cuts him off, because he is running out of time.  
“See ya on the other side.”

And he jumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so much for the shorter chapters.  
>  I blame the completely unnecessary sex scene that got spectacularly out of hand.


	9. Chapter 9

Eggsy is thirty and the first thing he feels is a hand wrapped around his own. It’s larger than his, warm and slightly calloused, and before he can remember his own name, he knows that the hand is right where it should be.

Slowly, everything starts to come back to him, his name and the way his face looks, Kingsman and the Philippines, he remembers falling and remembers more pain than he could bear and the sound of his bones breaking.  
There is no pain now, but Eggsy has been on pain killers often enough to recognise the drowsiness, the slowed down thoughts. He wants to open his eyes, look at Harry because he thought he might not ever get to do that again, but it’s no use; he falls asleep again, trying.

 

Eggsy is thirty and wakes again. There is no hand holding his and he misses it, misses knowing that Harry is there with him.  
This time, prying his eyes open works, even if the process is slow and difficult, and he’s met with blinding white; it’s not the medical wing, so he has no idea where he is at all. It has to be sometime during the day, because there is daylight filtering into the room, warm and bright and Eggsy wishes he could sit up and look outside.

He’s exhausted already, and yet Eggsy gathers all the strength he’s got left in him to turn his head to the side. Harry is where he expected him to be, but he doesn’t look like the man who kissed Eggsy goodbye God knows how many days ago, looks ten years older although he’s asleep, his face slack and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth less pronounced.  
Eggsy wants to reach out and touch him, feel the warmth of his skin and let Harry know that he’s okay, he’s here, but his hand doesn’t move further than a few inches when he tries, doesn’t even reach the edge of the bed.

It’s beyond frustrating, but although he tries, his hand won’t move again, as if the small distance had sapped all the strength from his muscles, left them weak. So instead of trying and failing again, Eggsy parts his lips, meaning to say Harry’s name; what leaves them is a short, strangled sound.

But it is to be enough, because Harry’s eyes fly open within a second, his whole body jerking upright.  
“Eggsy”, he gasps out, leans forward to grasp his hand like Eggsy wanted him to do the whole time, holding it tightly. “Oh my dear heart, my boy…”  
His words sound like sobs, his eyes filled with unshed tears and Eggsy wants to hug him, wants to make sure Harry isn’t blaming himself for this, wants to let him cry and scream and curse. What he does is squeeze Harry’s hand as hard as he can, which isn’t hard at all, but enough to break Harry down, it seems.

The other drops his head as if he couldn’t find the strength to keep it up anymore, cradles Eggsy’s hand in both of his and presses his lips against the Eggsy’s knuckles. His shoulders are shaking, his whole form wrecked by sobs, and Eggsy can feel tears wet his skin, can feel his heart shatter.

He lets Harry cry, curls his fingers slightly around the other’s, wishing he could sit up and pull Harry into an embrace, let him feel that Eggsy’s heart is still beating, still strong. But his body is betraying him, his limbs broken and ruined, but so he just squeezes again, forces his lips to move, his tongue to form words.  
“C’mere.”

It doesn’t come out sounding like it should, not even close, but it makes Harry look up at him, eyes wet and red-rimmed, tear tracks running down his cheeks. He looks a mess and Eggsy loves him so fiercely, so absolutely that it takes his breath away.  
“I can’t, I don’t want to hurt you”, Harry mutters, even his voice sounding broken, and Eggsy knows that at any other moment, he would be rolling his eyes in response; now he just repeats, “C’mere.”

A few seconds pass, but then Harry gets up without ever letting go of Eggsy’s hand, slips under the covers next to Eggsy. He’s more than careful, which makes Eggsy wonder just what that fall did to him, but scoots as close as he possibly can, Harry’s body pressed against his side.  
Their fingers are still intertwined, and Eggsy can feel himself relaxing now that Harry is close enough he can feel the other’s breath on his cheeks.  
“I thought I lost you”, Harry confesses, his voice still hoarse, so soft he could almost miss what the other is saying. “When Merlin called... I could hear it in his voice that something horrible had happened. And then he said you told him to tell me you love me and I…. I was so sure in that moment that you were dead.”

There is a pause that sounds like Harry is trying to find the strength to continue speaking, and Eggsy just watches, promises himself silently that he’ll kiss away all that worry, all that fear written on Harry’s face as soon as possible.

“I’ve lost lovers before”, Harry eventually continues, again bringing Eggsy’s hand to his lips to press a kiss to his palm, the tips of his fingers. “But I never felt like that. Not once. I can’t lose you, it wouldn’t just kill me too, it would tear me apart.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and finds out that he has broken one of his ankles and both his legs in several places, fractured his pelvis and sprained his elbow. Along with that go a myriad of bruises, of cuts and abrasions, a concussion and three days of being asleep after he had been brought here.  
He hadn’t been in a state to fly him back home, not while it still wasn’t clear if there was any internal bleeding, so they are still in the Philippines; Harry has the decency to look slightly sheepish when Eggsy turns to look at him, realising that this has to mean that Harry flew all the way here from England just to sit at his bedside.

The doctor talks to them in English and to the nurse in some language Eggsy can’t understand, tells him he’ll be fine and it’s only going to take some more days, some more operations until they can go back to London. He seems stressed, overworked, and extremely grateful when Harry tells him he’ll take care of all the rest.  
All the while, Harry holds his hand, the one that is mobile enough to be kissed and stroked and played with, squeezes it reassuringly when the doctor tells him quickly about the possible lasting effect before he leaves.

“It’s going to be alright”, Harry says after they have both watched the doctor close the door and Eggsy nods, his throat tight ever since the doctor talked about how a full recovery was possible, but not certain. “You’ll be alright and you’ll get healthy again.”  
Eggsy wishes he could believe him.

 

Eggsy is thirty, brushes his fingertips over the cast on his thigh. He isn’t supposed to touch it, isn’t supposed to move, but he can’t help it, it’s too strange to see his own limbs like this, one leg in a cast, the other one suspended in mid-air by the bolt they hammered through his knee.  
It should hurt, and looking at it almost does, but the doctors pumped him full with pain killers, so the only thing that’s left is the strange sensation of not being able to control his movements anymore.

His hand is still brushing over the hard surface when Harry comes back a few minutes later, two cups of tea in his hands. He looks so different here than he does back home, his hair in curls from the damp heat and his suits forgotten, and Eggsy likes it a little bit too much, the way Harry’s shirts cling to his chest, how they accentuate his broad shoulders and trim waist.  
Not that he can do anything but look anytime soon.  
“I talked to the doctor again”, Harry says and Eggsy is anything but surprised; it’s what Harry has been doing the last week, talking to the doctors again and again up to the point where Eggsy has noticed both nurses and doctors breathing out a sigh of relief when finding him alone in his room.

“And what did he say except for _Oh please, not again_?”, Eggsy asks, watches Harry set down the cups and bend over to brush a kiss to his forehead.  
“He said I could bring you home.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and Roxy is thirty-one, hugs him so hard that he knows he would be screaming in pain if he wasn’t so high on painkillers. He should tell her, he thinks, but Roxy’s arms are around him, holding on so tight that he can hardly breathe, and it seems like she needs this as much as Eggsy needed Harry to hold him that second time he woke up, so he uses his good arm to wrap it around her waist.  
“Good to see ya too”, he mutters, and Roxy gives a little, choked chuckle, squeezes him tighter.

“We thought you were dead”, she mutters against his chest, and it’s only then that Eggsy realises just what that means.  
Up until now, it’s just been Harry and him in a hospital room half a world away, it’s been Eggsy’s fears and Harry’s guilt, Eggsy’s pain and Harry’s worries. And Eggsy didn’t even think about all the others, the knights and the tech department and about Roxy.  
“To be honest, so did I”, he replies, because it's easier than to try and comprehend how he became important to so many people. “Said my last words and everythin’.”  
“Oh shut up”, Roxy answers, and slides onto his bed, puts her head on Eggsy’s shoulder and puts her hand over his heart, sighing. “Don’t jump out of any more windows, will you?”  
“I’ll try.”

 

Eggsy is thirty years old and it’s the first night in the medical wing he spends alone, having finally convinced Harry to go home and try to get a good night’s rest. It’s strange, being all by himself after having been surrounded by people all day, but it’s good to know that Harry is home after having watched the other man spread himself thin for the past weeks.  
Harry would never admit it, but Eggsy can see that he’s exhausted, that it’s too much, being Arthur and yet being there for him the whole day, the whole night. There are dark rings under Harry’s eyes and more than once, Eggsy has noticed crinkles in the other’s suits, his shirts, most likely meaning that Harry hadn’t gone home at all, had either slept in them or hadn’t slept at all.

And he understands it, he does, because he felt the same way when it was Harry in a hospital bed, wounded and vulnerable and still so precious to him. Like a second he spent without having the other next to him could mean to lose him all over again.  
Back then, it had been Harry who had told him to go home, to take care of himself instead of him, and it’s almost comforting to think that he can do the same for Harry now. That he can repay at least a little bit of what the other has given him.

 

Eggsy is thirty, says, “You told me mum what?”  
“That you had been in a car accident in the Philippines, and that there was no way to bring you back home yet.” Merlin looks tired, almost as tired as Harry, who is sitting next to him, holding his hand. “We had to inform her, and we had to make up something so she wouldn’t try and visit you. As much as I’d like to make an exception, there is no way we can allow her to come here, and no way we’ll move you to a normal hospital. We also told her your mobile phone hadn’t survived the accident, so don’t expect any calls.”  
It makes sense, but that doesn’t mean that Eggsy likes it any better; no matter how angry Michelle had been when they had last seen each other, he knows how much she must be worrying now, so far away from her son.

“Well, fuck”, he answers and Merlin sighs, puts down his tablet.  
“That’s one way to put it.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and he never knew just how exhausting it was to just lie around. With both his legs in casts, his hip aching with every movement, it’s impossible to do more than get up to go to the bathroom thrice a day, although there are times when he needs help even for that.  
It's frustrating, used to be utterly humiliating to ask a stranger to all but carry him to the loo, and Eggsy vows never to break his legs again.

Since there is only so much bad TV he can bear to watch, he asks Harry to read to him sometimes when the older man comes to see him after he has finished his work. Usually, it’s files which Harry still has to go over, but occasionally, when he is really lucky, Harry reads him a part of some novel, sipping whiskey in between paragraphs.  
It’s a special kind of pleasure, because Harry’s smooth voice goes just a little bit deeper, almost like touching velvet feels, and even if he sometimes can’t concentrate on what Harry is saying, he always loves listening, lets Harry’s voice carry him away.

 

Eggsy is thirty-, has been for two days and Albert comes to visit him, a six-pack of beer in his hand and Gawain’s suit still on. He plops down on the chair next to Eggsy’s bed and hands him one of the cans of beer before he has even said hello.  
“Jumping out of window, really now?”, he says instead of a greeting and Eggsy shrugs, but can’t help but smile. “Gave us half a heart attack.”  
“I’d say I won’t do it again, but I don’t wanna lie to ya”, he responds, then gestures to the beer in his hand. “Don’t think those mix well with the painkillers they’re feedin’ me.”

There is something decidedly mischievous in the other’s eyes, something that doesn’t quite look appropriate for someone who is married, has two kids he adores above all else, but at the same time, even Eggsy thinks it’s terribly charming.  
“I won’t tell Harry if you won’t”, he says, and Eggsy pretends to consider his answer for a second before he answer.  
“Ya got yaself a deal there, guv.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and Harry is fifty-six, holds his hand when they remove the casts around his legs. It’s become a thing somehow, holding hands, even when there are people around them, as if not touching is not a possibility, and Eggsy loves it, rubs his thumb over the older man’s knuckles.  
It doesn’t hurt, but he’s scared anyway, keeps his eyes on Harry’s face, because he doesn’t want to look at what is left of his legs, the scars that are undoubtedly left on them from the three times they had to cut him open.

Harry seems to notice, because he holds his gaze, murmurs soft words from time to time, pecks his lips until Eggsy has almost forgotten about the sounds of the little saw tearing apart the cast around his leg.  
“I’m going to take you home tonight”, Harry promises softly, although Eggsy doesn’t know if so the nurse won’t hear or because he’s too caught up in the moment. “And I’m going to spoil you rotten for at least the next month or so. Maybe longer.”  
“Are ya now?”, Eggsy asks back, his voice fond. He’ll gladly take anything which Harry is willing to give, no matter if now, so he won’t have to think of the casts, or later.  
“Absolutely.” Harry smiles, brings their joined hands to his lips to press a kiss to Eggsy’s knuckles. “I’ve been looking forward to that the whole time.”  
“Me too.”

Eggsy wants to say more, wants to talk about just how much he missed the long evenings spent on the couch, the home cooked meals and waking up together with Harry in their bed, but the nurse clears her throat, makes him look up.  
Which might be a bit of a mistake, because the first thing Eggsy sees is his legs, which are thin and pale, a long, red scar running down the side of one of them. He has never had problems with his looks, and yet, when he looks down now, Eggsy feels his chest fill with disgust.  
“Oh Jesus”, he breathes out, tries to move his toes, which works but is far more difficult than expected. “Oh God, Harry.”

The hand around his tightens, and Harry reaches out, puts a two fingers under his chin and gently turns Eggsy’s head and pulls his gaze away.  
“You’re beautiful”, he tells Eggsy, looking directly into his eyes and sounding so earnest, so terribly loving that Eggsy cannot bring himself not to believe him. “And I adore everything about you.”  
So Eggsy tries to smile, squeezes Harry’s hand. “Okay. But get me outta here, will ya?”  
“Of course.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and spends the first night in more than a month in his own bed. It’s the best sleep he’s had for ages.

 

Eggsy is thirty and the doorbell rings when Harry is still at work. It’s nothing that happens often - they hardly ever have visitors - so there is a faint sense of dread clinging to Eggsy’s mind when he makes his way to the door, gripping his crutches tightly.  
Of course it could just be the mailman, one of the neighbours who wants to borrow a cup of sugar, but it could also be Merlin, who wants to tell him that Kingsman has been compromised, that Harry has been hurt. Killed, even.  
So his heart is beating far too hard when he opens the door, peering outside.

It’s not the mailman and not one of his neighbours; it’s the person Eggsy expected least to see.  
“Mum?”, he asks, pushes the door open a little further.  
“Hello, Eggsy.”  
It’s been months since they have last seen each other, and they haven’t been kind to Michelle, have left her paler than before, her eyes sunken in, even if they are brighter than they used to be when she was still stuck with Dean.  
“What are ya doin’ here?”, he asks, tries to feel mad and yet fails. It's hard when so much time has passed, when she looks so relieved that he hasn’t slammed the door shut yet.  
“I just wanted to see ya”, she replies, her voice hopeful and tentative, and Eggsy hates it, hates that this is the way they are talking to each other now. “Make sure ya okay. I would’ve called, but they didn’t give me ya new number, so… “

Her voice trails off and Eggsy doesn’t know what to say, what she wants to hear, so he settles for something easy. “Do ya want to come in?”  
She nods and Eggsy steps aside, lets her step into the hallway. Suddenly, he’s twice as aware of the house as he usually is, sees the dead butterflies and the coats on the rack, the empty take-out containers Harry wanted to take out before going to work today and must have forgotten. It’s still mainly Harry’s house, or at least looks like it, but there are little things that belong to him too – the pairs of trainers next to Harry’s oxfords, the picture of Daisy on her first day at school that Harry put up next to the door, just above one of the postcards Eggsy brought him from a mission, the potted plant Roxy gave him as a housewarming present.

Eggsy isn’t sure how much of it his mother sees when she looks around, but he desperately hopes that she sees any, sees that he has found love, a home.  
“’s nice”, Michelle finally says, not sounding like she means it, but like she’s trying, and that’s enough for now.  
“Thanks”, Eggsy answers and leads her to the kitchen, refusing to be embarrassed for the mess he created while making breakfast. “D’ya want some tea?”  
“That’d be great.”

He can feel his mother’s gaze on his back when he turns around to make the tea, using the fancy loose leaf tea Harry loves so much and Eggsy has started to like too; maybe he is trying to impress her, he can’t really tell.

She doesn’t say anything, so Eggsy keeps quiet too until he puts a cup on the table in front of Michelle, sits down opposite of her.  
“There’s two sugars in there already”, he tells her, and she gives him a smile, as if he she is touched that he still remembers. Eggsy doesn’t comment, just takes a sip of tea and waits.  
It takes a few moments longer than he is comfortable waiting until his mother speaks, and when she does, her voice is unsure, quiet.  
“It’s good to see ya”, Michelle says, and takes a sip of too-hot tea. “I was worried, because of the crash, y’know. Wanted to fly over there and make sure ya okay, but with Daisy… couldn’t’ve taken her outta school for that long. She misses ya, by the way. Asks about her big brother the whole time.”

“I miss her too.” It’s the easiest part to respond to, so Eggsy does it first, wonders if his mum expects him to tell her she’s forgiven. Wonders if that would be the truth or not. “And I’m fine. ‘s just a few broken bones, nothin’ more, an’ Harry is takin’ good care of me…”  
He says it before he can think, and Michelle flinches, makes Eggsy steel himself for another attack, another _He doesn’t love you_. It never comes.  
“I also wanted to talk to ya ‘bout that”, his mother says instead, “I shouldn’t have said those things ‘bout ‘im. I don’t know ‘im, I don’t know how he feels for ya, but he called me to tell me ‘bout ya accident, told me the address so I could come an’ see ya today, so he can’t be all bad. An’ as long as he makes ya happy, I suppose that’s good enough for me.”

It’s not all Eggsy wants to hear, but it’s a start, it’s enough for now and he knows how difficult it must have been for his mother to say it. So he takes a sip of tea, burning his tongue a little, and replies, “Thanks. He does make me happy, more than that even.”  
Michelle nods, stays silent for a few moments, takes a deep breath as if she needed to gather her strength. “So are ya gonna come home?”  
It's not the question Eggsy expected, takes him completely off guard. He hasn’t even considered it, but now, for a brief moment, he does.  
“I’ll come visit”, he finally answers, watches Michelle’s face crumble. “But I am home.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and Harry is fifty-six, comes home to be greeted with a kiss, Eggsy’s crutches cluttering to the floor when he wraps his arms around the other man to pull him closer.  
Although Harry makes a soft, surprised sound against Eggsy’s lips, he kisses back immediately, puts his arms around Eggsy’s waist to steady him. He tastes like tea and peppermint and Eggsy melts against him, wishes his body wasn’t still too weak and too broken to do anything more strenuous than cuddle.

It takes some long moments until they break apart, Harry’s hands still holding him close and an amused smile on the other’s lips. “What have I done to deserve that?”  
“My mum came to see me”, Eggsy tells him, and Harry looks definitely pleased, pecks his lips again.  
“How did it go?”  
“She asked me to come home.”  
There is almost no change in Harry’s posture, he just stands a little straighter, tenses just ever so slightly. His expression though, his expression drops, becomes a blank slate, ready to lie and say that it’s alright, that Eggsy can leave whenever he wants to, and although it’s not what Eggsy wanted, it just makes him more certain that he will stay here forever.  
“I told her I already was.”

 

Eggsy turns thirty-one in his own house, his own bed, with Harry’s arms around him. It’s a slow, lazy morning they spend together, trading kisses and soft touches, both knowing which day it is and yet neither of them saying a word.  
Back then, a year ago, it had been a rash decision he had made, something he could easily have regretted, but up until now, he hasn’t, couldn’t when Harry looks so blissfully happy when he slides his arm around Eggsy’s waist, presses a kiss to his shoulder.

He thinks that Harry misses spoiling him a little, wants to say something, but he doesn’t, and Eggsy is almost glad for it, just watches for the signs in Harry’s face that tell him just how grateful the other is.  
It might be one of the best birthdays he’s ever had.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one years old and Michelle comes to visit two days after his birthday, Daisy trailing right behind her. The little girl is obviously excited, her hair up in pigtails and her smile widening when she sees Eggsy waiting for them in the doorstep, a bright squeal falling from her lips as she breaks into a sprint.  
He has missed her so much, Eggsy realises when he couches down so Daisy can throw her arms around his neck, hug him tightly, even more so than he thought he did.

His heart is light and aching at the same time, and Eggsy puts his own arms around Daisy, closes his eyes for a moment to just soak in her presence, her scent.  
“I missed ya, lil flower”, he says softly, and Daisy giggles happily, pulls away and puts her hands which aren’t as tiny as they used to be, on his shoulders, as if she needed to keep him steady.  
“I missed ya too.” Still, there is a smile on her face, and Eggsy wouldn’t want to have it any other way, forces himself to let go of Daisy completely, get up again and offer her his hand.  
A few metres away, his mother is watching and Eggsy gives her a smile, not knowing if he has forgiven her yet or is still trying.

“C’mon, I’ll show ya around”, he tells Daisy, focussing his entire attention on her again. His little sister puts her hand in his, her fingers curling around Eggsy’s own, and Eggsy leads her inside, watches her eyes widen; as quickly as she took his hand, she lets go of it again, runs off to look at the brightly coloured butterflies on the walls.  
She looks like she belongs here already, and Eggsy knows he would keep her if he could.

Silently, Michelle steps beside him, doesn’t speak for a few, long moments.  
“I’ve got a new boyfriend”, she says, and Eggsy sucks in a sharp breath, turns around to look at her. He’s scared, even if he doesn’t think that his mother would make yet another mistake like Dean was, and Michelle seems to know, seems to feel it. “I’ve never taken him home with me, not yet, but I thought that maybe ya would take Daisy for a night or somethin’ so I could spend it at his place.”  
It’s not just information she is sharing, it’s a peace offering of some sort, and although Eggsy is still scared and worried and knows it won’t stop anytime soon, he takes it gladly.  
“Yeah, sure. I’d love that. And I think Harry would too.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and shows Daisy Mr.Pickle, who he still hasn’t convinced Harry to take down; by now, he doubts he ever will. He doesn’t really know which reaction he expects, but it’s not the one he gets – Daisy screeches, then steps forward, puts her hand into Mr. Pickles’ fur, even if she can only reach his paw.  
“Is ‘e really dead?”, Daisy asks, and Eggsy nods, but instead of crying out, Daisy smiles. “Why does your husband keep ‘im?”

His heart skips a beat when Daisy calls Harry his husband, even if it surely is just because she doesn’t know the difference yet; he doesn’t correct her, both because he doesn’t want to and because he doesn’t think it would maybe any difference.  
“Because he loved him”, he answers, picks Daisy up easily so she can really look at the stuffed dog. “And wanted to keep him.”  
Daisy strokes a hand over Mr. Pickles’ fur, once, twice, then looks back at Eggsy with wide blue eyes and a curious smile. “Is he goin’ to keep ya too?”  
“Yeah”, Eggsy answers, surprised at just how soft his voice suddenly sounds, how gentle. “He will.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and screams.  
His physiotherapist just sits there, glossy black hair tied to a bun, and it just makes Eggsy angrier, more frustrated. He knows that building up his muscles will be a long process, has been told that over and over by at least a dozen people, but it doesn’t change a thing – Eggsy is not used to not being able to touch his toes, not being able to walk for more than a few metres without feeling exhausted, although he still has to use his crutches.  
“You need to have patience, Galahad”, Doctor Seok says, her voice as calm as always, and Eggsy feels the strange urge to smash her face in. “You can’t expect to get better within a few weeks, not after what happened to you.”

“Go fuck yaself”, Eggsy hisses and Doctor Seok just tilts her head slightly, points at his ankle, at the balance board underneath his foot.  
“Afterwards. Now, Galahad, again.”  
And Eggsy clenches his hands to fists, grits his teeth, and does.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and he leans down to brush his fingers through Harry’s hair. It’s grey at the temples by now, but still thick and silky against his palm, his fingertips, and Harry tears his gaze away from his book to look up at Eggsy.  
“What is it, my heart?”, he asks, and Eggsy doesn’t quite know what to answer, just shrugs.  
“’s just… I don’t know. I miss fucking ya.”  
For a few moments, Harry just looks at him, then barks out a laugh, reaching up to capture Eggsy’s hand and bring it to his lips, kissing his knuckles.  
“You never fail to surprise me”, he mutters against his skin, a smile still on his lips when he pulls away. “But you might want to know that I do miss it too.”

“Well then we could maybe do somethin’ about it…”, Eggsy answers with what he hopes is a seductive grin, leans down to press their lips together; Harry doesn’t allow him to deepen the kiss, although Eggsy more than tries.  
“As much as I would like that, there’s no way, unfortunately”, Harry answers and although Eggsy expected it, he can’t help but pout slightly. “Your doctor made that very, very clear to me. And I don’t want to hurt you.”  
“Awww. But it could take _months_ until the doctors say I can do anythin’ more than cuddle. Or suck your cock.”  
“In which case we will wait for months.” There is no room for disagreement in Harry’s voice, so Eggsy doesn’t even try to. And although he really does miss to be close to Harry like that, to be fused together, he likes that for Harry it seems to be absolutely clear that his health is more important than anything else. “I’ll make it up to you as soon as your doctors give the okay.”

“Ooooh.” Eggsy slides closer, suddenly very intrigued, and Harry chuckles, finally puts his book away for good. “How? Tell me.”  
“I won’t, I know how that would end otherwise.”  
Eggsy knows that too, which is just why he wanted to hear it in the first place, but he lets it go, instead settles for cuddling into Harry’s side, breathing in his scent.  
“Ya better make it good then”, he mutters, and Harry brushes a kiss to his temple, chuckles.  
“I will, my heart. I promise.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Harry is fifty-six, comes home to find him drunk on the sofa in the living room, an expensive bottle of brandy next to him. Any other day, he would be scolded for that, albeit gently, but this time, Harry just takes a single look at him, sits down next to him.  
And while Eggsy expects words, there are none; Harry stays silent and waits for Eggsy to speak first.

“The doc said it might take months until I’m well enough to go on another mission”, Eggsy finally says, hating the waver in his voice, hating the words, hating what they mean. He takes another gulp of brandy before he continues, tries to wash them away with the burn of the alcohol, the taste. “I’ll be useless for fuckin’ months to come.”  
A hand comes to rest on his thigh, warm and large, and yet Eggsy doesn’t look at the man sitting next to him; no matter which expression he’ll find on Harry’s face, he knows it would ruin him.  
“You’re not useless”, Harry says softly, firmly. “Not ever, not to me, not to Kingsman, not to anyone else who knows you. And no one expected you to get better within a few weeks, my heart. No one would expect something impossible from you.”

“I did.” The words taste bitter, but just because they are true; Eggsy flinches when he takes another swig from the bottle. “Did so many impossible things, didn’t I? Getting’ into Kingsman, savin’ the world, gettin’ Daisy and me mum away from that bastard Dean, getting’ ya to fall in love with me… A few goddamned broken bones shouldn’t even have been a challenge.”  
This time, Harry doesn’t answer immediately, and Eggsy is glad for it, uses the silence to take another drink, even if he can feel the other man’s disapproving gaze, knows just how hung over he will be, come the morning.

“That last thing at least wasn’t impossible”, Harry finally replies, squeezes his thigh, then reaches out to ease the bottle from Eggsy’s grip. “I’m certain I would have fallen in love with you, no matter if you had tried to win me over or not.”  
Harry doesn’t try to make Eggsy look at him, instead pulls him against his chest, and although Eggsy knows that he could just push the other away, go and drown in his own pain and insecurities, he doesn’t, just melts against Harry’s chest. “Really?”

Long fingers brush through his hair, fingernails scratching over his scalp, and Eggsy can feel Harry talking before he can hear it, the vibrations loud in his ear. “I’d go as far as to say that I was waiting for you my entire life.”  
Harry’s fingers don’t miss a beat, continue to touch him gently, and Eggsy isn’t sure why he is feeling so dizzy, if it’s because of the alcohol or the other’s words.  
“Ya do?”, he asks, and finally pushes himself upright enough so he can look at Harry’s face, finding his eyes solemn and dark. They don’t heal anything, those words, don’t help his muscles to grow or his thoughts to become any less poisonous when he thinks about all the missions he should be on, all the people suffering because his body is too weak, but they soothe the sting a little, make it easier to bear.

“There is not a doubt in my mind”, Harry answers, “Because I have never been happier than when I’m with you.”  
And that might just heal at least a little.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and wakes up with his back hurting and one of the worst hangovers of his life, his head still resting on Harry’s chest.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Harry turns fifty-seven. He leaves in the morning with a kiss to Eggsy’s cheek and only comes back late at night, when the food Eggsy prepared, since he now has time to cook, to do the housework, has gone cold.  
He’s exhausted, the lines around his eyes more pronounced than they usually are, and so Eggsy doesn’t mention that he has spent an hour trying to peel the pumpkins, that he waited an hour for Harry to come home before he decided to fuck it and have dinner by himself, just piles food onto a plate and puts it in the microwave.

When he comes back to the living room, Harry is sitting on the sofa, his shoulders slumping and a glass of brandy in his right hand. Eggsy drops a kiss to the crown of his head and puts the plate down in front of the other, joins him on the sofa.  
“Rough day?”, he asks, and Harry just nods, turns around so he can lean into Eggsy, as if he couldn’t find the strength to support his own weight anymore.  
Without thinking, Eggsy wraps an arm around him, lets Harry rest his head on his shoulder. “That bad?”  
Again, there’s a nod, soft hair moving against Eggsy’s neck, and although he wanted Harry to try the food so badly, wanted to be praised for it, he ignores it for now, settles back against the couch instead. Harry moves with him at first, until Eggsy gently guides him to lay down on the couch, his head in Eggsy’s lap.

There is a soft sound coming from Harry, exhausted and yet grateful, and Eggsy puts a hand on the other’s head, starts to thread his fingers through Harry’s hair, the greying strands on his temples and patch of skin just behind his ear. The simple touches are enough to draw a pleased hum from the other’s lips, and Eggsy does it again, reaches out to grab the remote control from the pillows.  
“I love ya”, he tells Harry, not because there’s a special reason for it, just because he does. He loves Harry like he is now and he loves him in every other way.  
The other man hums and squeezes his thigh.  
Eggsy turns on the TV.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Doctor Seok hums as she bends his ankle back and forwards. He doesn’t know if the sounds are a good thing or not, so he doesn’t allow to get his hope up, just in case they will be disappointed again.  
His hip is doing better, and that is something, but not enough, neither for getting back to the field nor for being allowed to do anything but trade gentle blowjobs with Harry anytime soon.

This time, Doctor Seok rotates his foot, her grip firm, and it still hurts a little bit, but Eggsy doesn’t say a word. It might be irresponsible, but he doesn’t care, sitting around all day is killing his mind and soul; he’s starting to think he’d rather damage his body instead.  
“An’, are we good, doc?”, he finally asks when it takes too long for her to speak.  
“Not perfect, Galahad”, she answers, and Eggsy curses her in his mind for a second, before she continues. “But good enough.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one years old and Harry is fifty-seven, puts him down on the mattress with a kiss, licking the giggle off his lips. His hands slide up Eggsy’s sides, making him shiver, while Eggsy is curling his fingers around Harry’s biceps, loving that the other man can pick him up so easily, can carry him around as if he weighed nothing.  
“Gonna make good on ya promise now?”, Eggsy asks and before Harry answers, he kisses him again, deeply this time. It’s one of those kisses that clearly are a promise too, a taste of what is yet to come; Harry licks into his mouth, sucks on his tongue and nibbles on his lips, and Eggsy is half-hard before Harry is even finished with kissing him.

“…that was a yes, wasn’t it?”, Eggsy breathes out when the older man pulls away, his hands holding onto Harry as if he was afraid of him leaving. “Please tell me it was, ‘cause otherwise I’ll probably die.”  
“A few months without fucking and you’re already that desperate?”, Harry asks, sounding unaffected, as if Eggsy couldn’t feel his hard cock digging into his hip; it’s one of the other man’s talents which Eggsy is especially jealous of. “How flattering.”  
“You vain prick”, Eggsy responds with a snort, his hips bucking up to rub his erection against Harry’s stomach, a soft groan escaping him. He _has_ missed this.  
“Well, if you’re not interested…” Harry starts to pull back, and although Eggsy knows he is just teasing, he wraps his legs around the other man’s waist, forces him to stay right where he is. It doesn’t hurt that the new position puts just the right amount of pressure on his aching cock.

“Don’t ya fuckin’ dare”, Eggsy hisses, and Harry chuckles, but now even his voice sounds breathless, wanting.  
“Alright”, Harry answers, presses his lips against Eggsy’s jaw, his cheek. “If you insist, my heart.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Harry is fifty-seven, kisses every single scar on Eggsy’s bod, laves his tongue over the angry red one on his thigh. It makes him ache in the very best of ways.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Harry is fifty-seven, kisses his shoulder and pulls him closer, their legs tangled together.  
“I’m going to hate sending you on missions again”, Harry mutters, still so close that Eggsy can feel the gust of his breath on his overheated skin. “I have gotten so used to having you here all the time.”  
“Mm…” Eggsy knows what the other man means, but doesn’t know what to say – he will hate being away from Harry just as much, will miss him terribly, but at the same time, he’s more than just excited to get out on the field again.

“I know”, Harry continues before Eggsy can think of what to say, brushes his fingertips over one of the scars Eggsy already had when they met, a circular one from a cigarette butt; who had put it out on his shoulder, Eggsy can’t remember. “And I don’t blame you for that. I used to be just the same, wanted to be out in the field as much as humanely possible.”  
A kiss to his shoulder, another to the crook of his neck, then Harry sighs. “Just remember that you have someone here, waiting for you to come home again.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and his first mission brings him to Seville. It’s not exciting, just retcon with a few guards that need to be taken down to retrieve some data, but it feels good to be on his feet again, to banter with Merlin and whoever happens to replace his handler when Merlin goes home to sleep, to feel the rush of adrenaline when he feels his fist connect with someone’s jaw.  
And yet, when he comes home, not battered, not bruised, he falls into Harry’s open arms, wonders how he will ever be able to leave again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day later than I actually wanted to post this, but I hope this soothes the sting of Eggsy being a reckless idiot and jumping out of windows a bit (:


	10. Chapter 10

Eggsy is thirty-one and goes down to the tech department because he fucked up another pair of glasses, the offending device in his breast pocket and two cups of coffee in his hands, one of them with too much sugar for himself and one black and far too strong for Merlin. It’s a peace offering and Eggsy has the feeling he’ll need it – this is the third time this year he has to request a new pair of glasses.  
Unlike Tristan, like Merlin will undoubtedly remind him, who has been wearing his for the past decade without as much as scratching them.

Only that Merlin isn’t there when Eggsy kicks open the door to his office like he does every time, ignoring all that talk about knocking. Instead, there is a young man sitting in the older man’s chair, dark hair and bright eyes, typing away on his tablet. Eggsy has never seen him before.  
“’Sup?”, he asks without looking up, and Eggsy raises an eyebrow, asks, “An’ who would ya be?”  
The man tears his eyes away from the display, half a smile on his lips before he has even looked at Eggsy properly. “Elyan. Well, that’s the code name, at least, but I guess it’s enough for now? I’m the new guy.”

“I noticed that”, Eggsy answers dryly, sets down Merlin’s cup of coffee anyway. “I’m Eg-Galahad. Since code names are enough.”  
“Nice to meet you, Gary Lee Unwin”, Elyan answers with a cheeky grin and after another few clicks and swipes on his tablet.   
He should be annoyed, Eggsy thinks, and yet he can’t help but chuckle. “Well played.”  
“They don’t just hire anyone for this.” Elyan leans back, taking Merlin’s cup of coffee with him as he props his feet up on the other man’s desk as if it was his own, a perfect picture of cocky attitude until he takes a sip of the coffee, all but spits it out again. “Oh fuck, that is vile!”  
Eggsy likes him already.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one, it’s Tuesday and Harry has left for work early in the morning, with just a peck on his cheek and a few, soft words which Eggsy didn’t understand, still too tired, when the phone rings. It’s not his mobile, but the landline which Harry insists on keeping, although Eggsy tells him time and time again that it makes the house look even more old-fashioned.

At first, he doesn’t even want to pick up, wants to stay right where he is with his cup of tea and buttered toast – since he moved in, the phone has only rung two or three times, so how important can it be? – but he gives in in the end, when the ringing just won’t stop.   
He expects someone trying to convert him to some cult, or maybe someone trying to sell him an insurance , but it’s Roxy’s voice in his ear as soon as he has picked up.  
“Why the fuck don’t you answer your phone?”, she demands to know without even greeting first, sounding far more frustrated than she has any right to at this time of day.  
“What? I dunno, must’ve left it on silent, ya know how that happens.” Eggsy pushes a hand through his hair, which is getting just a little bit too long at the back, wonders just what is so important it would make Roxy call him at home. “What’s up?”  
“You’ve got to come over”, Roxy all but orders, and Eggsy wants to say no, but then she continues, changes his mind with only four words. “I might be pregnant.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and waits in front of the bathroom while Roxy pees on a pregnancy test, tells him about the nine days her period is late.  
“-and you know, now with Harry, it could mean that- well, it’s possible, isn’t it?”   
Eggsy hears the toilet flush, dares to peek into the bathroom a few moments later; it’s a strange thing since they have seen each other naked countless times before, and yet it feels too intimate now. “But like, ya do use protection, don’t ya?”  
Roxy isn’t facing him, turned towards the sink to wash her hands, but they have been friends for long enough that Eggsy notices it when her body tenses, her shoulders draw up just a little bit.   
“Oh. My. God.”

“It was just a couple of times!”, Roxy tries to defend herself, whips around to glare at Eggsy, even if the effect is ruined slightly by the blush high on her cheeks.   
“But why? Ya a clever girl, Rox, ya know what can happen.”  
“Well…” The blush on Roxy’s cheeks deepens and Eggsy knows what she will say before she gets the chance to. “There is the possibility that I don’t really mind it. The pregnancy thing, I mean. We weren’t trying or anything, but it was… well, it was a risk we were both willing to take, I guess?”  
She looks a little bit helpless and Eggsy feels everything at once, confused and shocked and scared and happy. “Oh wow.”

He drops down on the floor, leaning against the bathroom wall and Roxy joins him several moments later, still holding the pregnancy test.   
“So, what are we hopin’ for?”, Eggsy asks after they have been quiet for far too long; next to him, Roxy shrugs.  
“I don’t know? Part of me is terrified that it might be positive and part of me would be deliriously fucking happy.”  
“You never said anything.”

Again a shrug, then Roxy lets her head fall back against the wall with a thud. “I didn’t know how to. It wasn’t a definitive thing, not even a plan, just a feeling. I always wanted to have children, and I always put it off, but I’m thirty-two and I’m not getting younger…and as Lancelot, I don’t know how much time I have anyway, so why put it off?”  
It does make sense, Eggsy has to admit that, even if he doesn’t get to say anything about it, not yet.   
“And Harry wants kids”, Roxy continues, sounding bashful and happy, even if still a little helpless. “He never- he won’t say it out-loud, only ever talks about _someday_ but I know it, I can just feel it somehow. And he would make such a good dad.”

“I didn’t even know ya two were that serious” Eggsy answers and it feels like a confession, like admitting that both of them have spent too little time together lately, haven’t fallen out of touch, but have stopped with late-night phone calls and evenings spent in a pub, movie nights.   
“I didn’t realise it either at first”, Roxy answers, “But I think we were always serious somehow. I don’t think he does anything but serious, ever.”  
“Well, that’s at least somethin’ our Harrys have in common.”

Silence follows, but not the tense, uncomfortable kind, instead the kind of silence Eggsy has come to associate with the nights he spent with Roxy at her flat, companionable, filled with the knowledge that they could talk about anything, should they want to.   
“Do you think five minutes have passed?”, Roxy finally asks, sounding even more helpless, even more scared and Eggsy reaches out to take her hand, nods.   
“Well then.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Roxy is thirty-two and there are two pink lines in the little display and Eggsy squeezes her hand tightly, not sure if he needs to comfort or congratulate her.   
He isn’t sure if even Roxy knows, who just stares at the little device in her hand, as if she couldn’t make it out, couldn’t comprehend what the test said.   
“Not pregnant then”, she finally mutters, and Eggsy can hear it in her voice, has pulled her into his arms before she starts sobbing.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and they eat instant ramen and ice cream in front of the TV, Roxy wrapped into a blanket and with her eyes still red-rimmed.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one, comes home in the morning instead of at night, after having slept only a few hours and those on Roxy’s sofa, next to and half on top of her.  
Harry is having breakfast in the kitchen, a cup of tea and a bit of toast still in his hand when Eggsy finds him, forcing him to remember that the text he wanted to send Harry about not coming back home is still on his phone and not on Harry’s.   
“Mornin’ love”, he greets, hoping he looks as apologetic as he feels when he leans down to kiss Harry on the cheek.   
“Good morning”, Harry answers, his brow furrowing for a moment, before he adds, “You smell like alcohol. And cigarettes.”

“Huh?” Eggsy pulls his shirt up to his face, breathing in, and Harry is right, he does. It takes a moment or two until he can remember why; last night was far too long, far too messy. “Oh, yeah. Me and Rox had a bit too much wine and shared a smoke or two, can’t remember anymore.”  
Harry nods, and Eggsy can see that he doesn’t quite know what to think. He should try and change that, but it’s been too long a night and he’s too tired to care, so he doesn’t, just pecks the other’s cheek again, refrains from ruffling his hair.   
Asks, “Will it be a problem if I come to work a lil bit later today? I just really need a good night’s sleep… at eleven in the mornin’.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Harry is fifty-seven, knocks politely at the door to Eggsy’s office, as if trying to make a point even after all these years, comes in with a small container in one hand, white plastic and so inconspicuous that Eggsy zeroes in on it immediately.   
“What’s that?”, he asks before Harry has even set the box down in front of him, making the other chuckle.   
“Patience is a virtue, you know that, don’t you, my heart?”  
“Yeah, but a completely overrated one.” Eggsy still waits for the other to slide the box over before he opens it, the scent of butter and pastries enveloping him immediately, making his mouth water.

“Oh, sod off”, he mutters to himself, even while he reaches inside to grab one of the still-warm scones, stuffing it into his mouth in one piece. “Fuck, I love ya, Harry Hart.”  
“I love you too”, Harry responds easily and with a smile, while he steals one of the scones for himself, delicately breaking off a part before popping it into his mouth, ever the gentleman.

It would be enough, Eggsy could just get back to devouring the rest of the scones, but it doesn’t feel right somehow – ever since he has gotten back from his medical leave, it feels like they haven’t been able to spend any time together, at least compared to the near always before, and Eggsy misses it, the lazy mornings and the long talks, the easy kisses and the constant touches.   
So Eggsy reaches out instead, his fingers still stained with butter, covered in crumbs, takes Harry’s hand and squeezes. “I mean it, I love ya. Don’t know if I say it often enough.”

And it must have been the right thing to say, because Harry looks up with his eyes bright even behind his glasses, his fingers curling around Eggsy’s own. “I love you too.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Harry is fifty-seven, brought him lunch, just instant soup today, but better than nothing. They are eating out of the tea mugs, Harry with a spoon, Eggsy just taking sips, and Elyan barges into the room without knocking, which makes Harry raise an eyebrow and Harry grin widely.  
“What’s up?”, he asks the younger man, who is looking at Harry for a moment, before focussing his entire attention on Eggsy.  
“Nothing, really, just wanted to ask if you had any time to come by later, I got some of that chai you liked so much last time, and I wanted to ask you something about that mission you’ve got next week to Nairobi.” He looks a little nervous, and Eggsy lets his smile widen; he still remembers how frightening everything about Kingsman could be, the responsibility, the danger.

“Sure, just gimme a few minutes to finish this and I’ll come over. But just ‘cause that chai was aces last time.”   
“Great.” Elyan smiles, then adds, just before he leaves, “See you later, then. And you, Arthur.”

He leaves, and Harry doesn’t turn around, but when Eggsy looks back at him, there is a hint of a smile on his lips, even if he is still sipping soup. “You seem to be getting on well. I thought you might.”  
“Yeah, he’s a sweet kid”, Eggsy answers, leans back again, takes a gulp of his soup; even if he loves these lunches they have together, he doesn’t want to keep Elyan waiting for too long, especially not when it’s something mission-related. “And, I dunno. I can remember how scary everything here was and he doesn’t have ya to take care o’ him, so I’m trying to do that a bit, I guess?”  
“That’s very noble of you”, Harry responds, obviously teasing. “But it’s always good to be friends with your handler.”  
“Ya would know.”  
“Oh yes, I do.” Harry brings the mug to his lips, drinks the last bit of soup directly from it, before he sets it down. “But now, don’t let me keep you when work is calling.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and after one afternoon Eggsy spends at home with both Daisy, who seems to grow taller every time he sees her, and JB, the curtains in the living room are not what they once were, ripped and painted red and blue instead of their former beige.   
There are still smudges of paint on Daisy’s cheeks and underneath her fingernails when Michelle comes to pick her up, and Eggsy doesn’t even try to get the curtains fixed, only waits for Harry to come home so he can confess.

Which doesn’t take long, because it’s late already and Harry promised to be home for dinner, and it turns out that there is no need to confess at all, because Harry sees the mess his little sister and former dog have caused before Eggsy can say a word.   
He’s still in the kitchen when the older man slides up behind him, wraps his arms around Eggsy’s middle and pulls him closer, resting his chin on Eggsy’s shoulder. “Could it be that you invited your sister over today?”  
The question is asked with an absolutely innocent tone of voice, and Eggsy nods, bites his lips almost a little nervously.

But Harry doesn’t reprimand him, doesn’t scold, just lets his fingers travel up Eggsy’s sides, mutters, “Well, I never really liked those curtains anyway.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Harry is fifty-seven, somehow lets himself be convinced to go shopping in IKEA instead of the posh shops he’d preferred. It’s just for Eggsy’s sake, obviously, who is even happier when he gets to drag Harry through seemingly endless halls of bedrooms and kitchens and hallways.   
It feels so normal somehow, like something a completely regular couple would do, and Eggsy relishes in it, ignores the way people stare and takes Harry’s hand in between the kitchen tables and the closets and doesn’t let go until they are at the cash register, have to pay for the three sets of curtains, the new bathroom rug, the pug-printed blanket, the couch table Eggsy feel in love with at first sight and the handful of other knickknacks Eggsy talked Harry into getting.

They put the table together when they get home with Harry only threatening to throw it out twice, and Eggsy just cursing his whole existence one time, vow to throw the old one out the very next day. Afterwards, Eggsy makes hot chocolate while Harry puts up the curtains they finally decided on, and they curl up on the sofa, covered by the fluffy blanket.   
And with Harry idly switching through channels, sipping his hot chocolate out of the mug Eggsy gave him last Christmas, Eggsy realises just what makes this so important – although they have been living here together for more than a year, these are the first things they picked out together, as a couple.

“Why are you smiling?”, Harry asks, pulls Eggsy back to reality, and Eggsy shrugs, cuddles closer, although he’s already a little too hot under the blanket.   
“No reason, really”, he mutters, steals a sip of Harry’s hot chocolate, because his own cup is too far away. “Just glad to be here. With you.”

 

Eggsy is thirty and Merlin is fifty-five, says, “I’m going to let Elyan handle your mission, Galahad. God knows it’s not a dangerous one and the kid needs practice.”  
“Alright, but-“ Eggsy starts, but there is the tell-tale clicking sound of Merlin logging off in his ear, so he just sighs, squints out into the vast desert stretching out in front of him until there is another clicking, another voice.

“Galahad, my man!”, Elyan drawls into the microphone, the sound of typing almost drowning out his voice for a moment. “How’s beautiful Egypt today?”  
“Sunny”, Eggsy responds, shielding his eyes from the sun with the back of his hand. “Fuckin’ hot, lemme tell ya.”  
The other man lets out something like a snort, says, “You Brits and your inability to cope with anything but rain, Jesus.”

He could be offended, but Eggsy has never really seen the point of that, so instead he asks, “Where’s you from anyway?”  
For a few moments, there is silence, and Eggsy uses it to check his watch, then, with his voice guarded, less cheerful, Elyan asks, “What do you mean?”  
“Think I can’t tell when someone’s from the fuckin’ States?”, Eggsy asks back, “I did watch The OC when I was younger, don’t think I’m an amateur.”  
“The OC?”, Elyan laughs, even if a second too late, but his voice is carefree again. “Fuck, Galahad, how old are ya? I thought you and Lancelot were supposed to be the young, cool ones.”

“We are!” Eggsy is laughing too, flips Elyan off through the feed of his glasses. “Try an’ find one other agent who knows anythin’ that came out after the 90s- or wait, scratch that, bruv. I made Arthur watch the last two Mad Max movies with me in the cinema. He even liked them.”  
“Seriously?” Elyan sounds like he can’t believe a word Eggsy is saying and Eggsy can’t blame him; he most likely wouldn’t either.   
“Promise. I’ll make him take me to the next one too.”  
“Pics or it didn’t happen.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and comes back to England, tanned and with a sunny smile, finds Harry in his office at HQ. He plops down on Harry’s lap instead of on the chair in front of the desk, wraps his arms around the other’s neck; it’s been fifteen days since they have last seen each other and Eggsy has missed him _so much_.   
“Hello, my heart”, Harry greets with a smile and a kiss to Eggsy’s cheek, his arms slowly circling Eggsy’s hips. “How was Egypt? Did they treat you well?”  
“Very much so, even. Missed ya though, like, in between of punching arms dealers in the face.” He’s grinning and Harry smiles back, is still smiling when Eggsy kisses him properly – not passionately, that can wait until they get home, but deeply enough to feel like he has his old life back again. “Ya wanna cook tonight or should we order in?”

“Depends on your plans, my heart”, Harry answers, brushes their lips together against, only that he nips at Eggsy’s lower lip this time, a silent promise. “Do you want to eat or do you want me to tie you up and suck your cock until you can’t remember your own name anymore?”  
It’s not really a question Eggsy needs to answer.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and rummages through his bag, trying to find the tacky souvenir he got for Harry while he was waiting at the airport, since Merlin had decided that it’d be less suspicious if he’d just mingle with the tourists waiting to go back to their boring jobs, their boring lives.   
“I swear I had it somewhere, I just- ah!” With a triumphant little sound, Eggsy pulls out two snow globes out of his back, one with a golden Sphynx in the middle, one with three tiny pyramids. “Ya get to choose one, because ya my favourite.”

“Choose?”, Harry leans forward in his seat a little, but looks at Eggsy instead of at the globes. “Why’s that? Is the other one for Roxy?”  
“Nah.” Eggsy gives the other a smile, sets the snow globes down on the kitchen table, where Harry can still see them. “’S for Elyan, y’know, that new guy down at the tech department? Kinda tall, dark hair, American…”  
Harry’s brow furrows for a moment and there is a moment, maybe not even quite that long, where an expression flits across the other’s handsome features which Eggsy can’t quite decipher, then it softens once more. “Oh, yes. I remember. That is very kind of you.”

Eggsy laughs softly, brushes his fingertips across the back of Harry’s hand, which is spread out on the desk. “Ya know me, I like to please.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one, says, “You don’t call me darling anymore.”  
They’re curled up on the sofa in Harry’s office, Harry going over some old reports and Eggsy switching between sending Roxy texts and reading through some research he has to do for a mission in Auckland he has to go on soon.   
“Hm?”  
Harry tears his eyes away from his folder, looks over at him and Eggsy doesn’t really know why he is asking.   
“Oh, it’s just..”, he tries to explain, not really sure how to, “I dunno. Ya used to call me darlin’ a lot and ya don’t anymore. Not that I mind, apparently ya have more than enough pet names to last a lifetime.”

Eggsy adds a smile to the last few words, trying to make sure that Harry knows he isn’t mad, isn’t trying to criticise at all. It’s just something he noticed lately, something he couldn’t quite understand.   
“Oh.” Harry sits up straighter, closes the folder, but he doesn’t seem angry, only surprised. “Well… Oh, you’ll call me a sap, you will. You know that I had lovers before you, don’t you?”  
Eggsy nods; he knows and he doesn’t mind it - in fact, anything else would make him feel horrible, thinking about Harry being alone for all these years.   
“And I called so many of them darling, or love, or dear, and it just didn’t feel right anymore, it needed to be something different.”

He’s not quite, but almost, sure that there is a hint of a flush on Harry’s cheeks, that his eyes keep flickering downwards slightly more often. He’s embarrassed, and it’s _adorable_.  
“When I saw you on that hospital bed, not even conscious, it felt like my heart had stopped. And it fit somehow. My heart.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and he’s in the kitchen, making tea for him and Ector, who is still the new guy, although he’s been a Kingsman for more than a year now and the best marksman they have, when the door opens and two children run into the kitchen, followed by Albert, who would look like Gawain, if not for the smile on his lips.   
“Oh ‘ello”, Eggsy greets, feeling a grin turning the corners of his lips upwards as well. “Who would ya two be, then?”

He knows who they are – Albert has showed him more than enough pictures of his two kids for Eggsy to know them anywhere, even if he has never met the two of them before – but the two children straighten up anyway, both grinning up at him.   
“Peter and Susy”, Albert introduces them, even if the girl’s brow furrows, and she corrects, “Sus _an_!”  
“Well, pleased to meet ya then, Peter and Susan.”

Eggsy holds out his hand and both shake it, then he turns to Albert. “How come ya could bring ‘em here? Did Harry do somethin’ he needed to make up for? And if so, can ya tell me what?”  
“Unfortunately not.” Albert laughs, ruffles his son’s hair. “I would love to help you to blackmail your boyfriend, but this time, at least, he just said yes out of the goodness of his heart.”  
“Awww.” Eggsy pouts a little bit, but doesn’t mean it, turns around to pick up the two steeping mugs of tea. “I’ll be off, but if ya want to drop these two off with me a bit later to get some work done, I could show ‘em around the gardens or somethin’. I just have to do some research to do today, wouldn’t be a bother at all.”  
“Oh, that’d be great, I’ve got to pop down to see Merlin, I fucked up another one of my watches.”  
“He’s gonna kill ya”, Eggsy answers with a far too wide grin, takes a sip of tea and promptly burns his lips. “It’s the, what, third one this year?”  
“Don’t remind me.” Albert sighs, opens the fridge to take out two chocolate bars he hands to his kids, who start unwrapping them happily. “Make sure my funeral is beautiful.”  
“Will do, mate, will do.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and spends one and a half hours with Susan and Peter, showing them the grounds of the manor, the old, dusty basement, everything in between. They chatter and laugh and run around, and Eggsy, who still misses his sister more than anything, feels more than a little lighter when he finally goes home.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and goes to Nairobi without the kiss he usually gets from Harry in the morning; the other man is busy in Belfast, can’t come to see him off. He understands it, of course, but there’s nothing done against it, so instead of a kiss, he gets a text from Harry, telling him to come home safe.

He does.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Harry is fifty-seven, is home when Eggsy arrives back; it’s so late that even Merlin agreed to let him come back the next morning for his debriefing.   
It’s way past one in the morning and yet Eggsy knows that the other is awake the second he walks into the house, toes his shoes off; it smells like fish and chips.  
“Harry?”, he calls into the kitchen, and the older man’s head pops out of the kitchen, a pleasant smile on his lips.   
“Oh, Eggsy! I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“Oh, don’t pretend that ya not happy that ya can see my pretty face again already”, Eggsy replies with a grin, walks to the kitchen a bit faster than maybe necessary; it’s only been two days since he has last seen Harry, but it still feels like far too long, no matter how successful the mission was.   
“I’m immensely happy, even. Especially because that pretty face hasn’t been smashed in like some times before this.”  
“Oh no, Elyan took good care o’ me”, Eggsy replies, kisses Harry on the lips as soon as he can, melting a bit against the older man. Once the kiss ends, Eggsy kisses Harry again, just because he can, and the other’s arms wrap around him, pulling closer.   
“I’ll have to thank him for that, then”, he mutters, right against Eggsy’s lips. “I missed you.”  
“I missed ya too. Always.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and has to stop in the middle of his work-out because his ankle stings whenever he sets his foot down. He twisted it during warming up, something that happens far too easily nowadays, even if he tries his best to forget about that.   
He has spent enough time being useless.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Daisy turns ten years old, is even more excited than the other nine times before, because there are two numbers now instead of one.   
It’s adorable, and Harry seems absolutely charmed when he takes them both out for lunch, asks Daisy about school and her friends and her teachers, smiles when she laughs and tells her to order two desserts instead of one.

They have met before, but only ever briefly, and Eggsy delights in watching them together, the sister he adores and the man he loves more than life itself.   
Harry lets Daisy steal bites of the chocolate cake he is having, pretending not to notice, although there is chocolate covering her mouth, her fingers and Eggsy shoots him a smile across the table, knowing he has to look absolutely smitten with the older man. Who doesn’t even seem to notice at first, just laughs softly at something Daisy has said, before he catches Eggsy’s eyes across the table.   
“What?”, he asks, and Eggsy just continues smiling for a few moments, then shrugs.   
“Nothin’. Just… I like this a lot. Ya and me and the lil’ princess here, it’s nice.”  
“You’re right, it is.”

Harry’s tone is soft, happy, and Eggsy wants to reach out to take the other’s hand, but Harry ruins that plan before he can start – he leans across the table to kiss Eggsy sweetly, both of them ignoring Daisy’s yell of, “Gross!”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Harry is fifty-seven, asks, “Do you have any plans for tonight?”  
“No”, Eggsy answers without thinking, around a bite of falafel. “No, wait, yeah, I do. Elyan asked to go over some things with me, so I might be home a bit later than usually. Did ya want to do anythin’ special?”  
Harry is looking at him blankly for a second, then shakes his head slightly, almost to himself. “No, not at all. I just thought we could go and see a movie, maybe, they do have one of those new 4D theatres in the city.”

“Aww.” Eggsy pouts a little; they don’t go out all too often, and he always enjoys it. Not to mention that he _loves_ going to the cinema. “Maybe another time? I’m dyin’ to try out that shit, Rox and Haz told me about some movie they saw last week and the smells were intense, they said.”  
“I’m sure we’ll find time”, Harry reassures, squeezes his hand before he gets up, no doubt to go to another boring meeting. “Have fun with Elyan.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and the world goes to shit. At first, it’s just another crisis, but then it’s so much more, it’s some organisation infiltrating the British parliament, then one in the Russian Federalnoye Sobraniye as well, one in the Indian Rajya Sabha and the Lok Sabha, the United State Congress.  
No one knows how they missed this, but they did, and Eggsy has never heard Harry curse this much, has never heard him that frustrated, that scared. It makes it even more terrifying, more real, and although he desperately wishes he could, he doesn’t even have time to get his goodbye kiss from Harry, before he leaves for New Delhi.

It's only in the plane when he gets to even send a text, and although it shouldn’t matter anymore, because everything around him is falling apart, because millions of people could die, once the nuclear weapons owned by those countries fall into the wrong hands, but it still makes him feel so much worse. Especially because Eggsy doesn’t know when he’ll be back, if he’ll be back.  
He doesn’t want the last memory Harry has of him to be a silent breakfast they spent together.

_See you when I get back, stay safe_ , he texts, _I love you._

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and New Delhi is hot and humid, the air almost too heavy to breathe, and Eggsy finds that everything is even worse than they thought. Back in London, Merlin has gone quiet for a long, long time, ever since Eggsy has arrived in the Indian HQ, an agent named Shiva greeting him with a blank face and a trembling handshake.   
They thought that it would only be small parts of the Lok Sabha, the lower house of India’ Parliament, about half of the Rajya Sabha, the upper house, but it turns out that it’s more than half of the Lok Sabha and almost all of the Rajya Sabha, which is less, but still too powerful. If the president is still one of them, or has been turned too, they don’t know, but Eggsy desperately hopes he is; this is going to take long enough as it is anyway.

They cannot go against the organisation, whichever it is, in the open, not without alarming the public and the organisation itself, in the worst case forcing them to act earlier than they wanted to. And so, at least Shiva tells him, it’ll be retcon for now, it’ll be a covert operation, undercover and under the highest level of discretion, until they have an agent in every branch of the organisation they know of – Bors back home in England, Lamorac and Roxy in the US, Kay and Gawain in Russia, the others on hold for now, until there is more information available, until Harry has decided what to do.

It takes an hour and a half until there is crackling in his ear, then Elyan greets him. “’lo, Galahad.”  
He doesn’t sound as happy and upbeat as he usually does, his voice flat somehow, and Eggsy understands it; he feels the same way. “Mornin’. Merlin off to brief the others?”  
“Yeah. I asked if I could be your handler, at least for now. Thought you might appreciate hearing a familiar voice.”  
“I do, to be honest.” It’s Harry’s voice he wants to hear, but he doesn’t tell Elyan that, too afraid that the younger man would go and try to fetch their Arthur, when Harry surely has far too much to do. “So walk me through this, Elyan, tell me what to do.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and he poses as the ambassador’s assistant, frustrated, disillusioned, ready to see the world change and yet not knowing how to make it so. They have more than enough names, so Eggsy knows just who to talk to, who to convince that he is desperate to become part of something bigger, greater, and that he would be a valuable asset for them. And there is Elyan in his ear, Merlin on occasion, to help him out with the facts he should know but doesn’t.  
It works, but it’s a painstakingly slow process, every step along the way overshadowed by the danger looming overhead, and Eggsy spends more nights awake, worrying, working, than he does asleep, to the point that even the calls back home feel like a chore sometimes.   
More than once, he falls asleep with Harry still talking to him, only to find the phone pressed to his ear the next morning, drained of battery.

It’s after a month that Harry informs him that they’ll send him someone to help, the other’s voice soft and tired when he tells him, and Eggsy’s heart aches; he wishes he could reach out and at least take Harry’s hand, feel the warmth of his skin against his palm.   
“I hope we’ll be able to bring you back home soon”, Harry says, and Eggsy wonders if he’s still at work, hopes he is at least on the way home.   
“Me too”, he answers, adds, “I miss ya. I miss London, I even miss my office. I mean, everyone here is lovely, Shiva even brought his daughter ‘round yesterday, but it’s just not the same.”  
“I didn’t know he had a daughter”, Harry replies, and Eggsy settles back, hopes that this time, he’ll be able to stay awake for long enough to make this feel like a slice of home.   
“He does. Called Anshi, she’s the sweetest thing. Tries to imitate my accent, but God, she’s bad at that. Reminds me a bit o’ Daisy, to be honest, they’ve got almost the same laugh. Makes me miss her a bit more and a bit less, all at once.”

Harry hums, clearly wants to say more, but there are noises in the background, excited, terrified, Eggsy can’t tell. “I’m so sorry, my heart, I’ve got to go. Something seems to have happened to Bors, I’ll talk to you as soon as I possibly can.”  
“Yeah, sure. Love ya.”  
“I love you too.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one, expects Ector to step off the plane that brought his back-up, maybe, but hopefully not, Tristan, but instead, blinking and in a rumpled flannel shirt, Elyan stumbles down the steps, followed by an older woman, who Eggsy has sometimes seen in the tech department, but never spoken to.   
“Galahad!”, the younger man exclaims as soon as he has set eyes on Eggsy, and it’s nice to have someone truly excited for his presence for once. “Haven’t seen you in ages. How you’ve been, man?”

“We’ve literally talked yesterday”, Eggsy reminds him, but returns the half-hug Elyan pulls him into, then straightens to offer his hand to the other’s companion. “Hi, nice to meet ya.”  
“Hello”, the woman greets him, her voice smooth and deep, melodious. “Caradoc, but please, call me Suchandra, it’s the name you’ll use for the rest of the mission after all. Arthur sent me here to help you a little with the language and the more stubborn people around.”  
“Oh?”, Eggsy’s interest perks up, although he has had less than three hours of sleep last night. “Ya from around here?”  
“I definitely am. The president is my uncle.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Suchandra turns out to be a blessing. While he is, by now, quite good with both Hindi and Bengali, she is fluent in both the languages, as well as three more, her name opens more doors than even Eggsy’s new found connections ever could, she knows just the right level of arrogance to get them into pretty much everything. Not to mention that she looks great in the richly coloured saris she has ditched her suit for.

It helps Eggsy’s task in more ways, even – now that it is known that he is well-acquainted with the President’s niece, he is suddenly at least twice as interesting to the organisation they still haven’t been able to put a name to.   
All of it means more work, even less time to sleep, to speak to anyone back home, but it’s more satisfying now when it feels like they are making progress.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and everything seems to be going well until Lamorac and Roxy manage to fuck everything up. He doesn’t know how, just knows that Merlin is screaming in his ear in the middle of the night, about how they have been compromised, that Roxy is missing and they have to do everything possible to stop what is happening.   
He doesn’t even have time to get dressed before Elyan is barging into the room, eyes frightened and hands trembling.   
“Come on, there’s a taxi outside, we need to get to HQ”, Elyan tells him and Eggsy is proud to notice that while his expression is terrified, he sounds so much calmer, so much more composed.   
“Of course.” He throws on a shirt, pulls up his pants and takes his jacket with him, deciding to ignore the tie, even if it’s one of those Harry gave him.

The ride in the cab is silent, Eggsy to worried about Roxy and Lamorac to make conversation; when they reach the Indian headquarters, everyone else is already there, panicking silently.  
“What’s the status?”, Eggsy asks as soon as he has set eyes on Shiva, who’s pale and visibly shaken. “What do you know?”  
“Not much. Apparently the group in England has somehow found out about your colleagues involvement and sent out a warning. The plan has been brought forward, to be executed as quickly as possible.”  
“But we don’t know the plan yet!” That’s the whole problem that they still have, that Eggsy hasn’t earned enough trust in the last nine and a half weeks to be considered important enough to be told what exactly the end game is; they have bits and pieces, but most of them are based on Eggsy’s hunches, his instincts.

“I know, believe me, I know”, Shiva responds darkly, but before he can continue, the head technician, Murugan interrupts them.  
“Sir, there’s been movements, a group of men and women, highly armed, just entered the Rashtrapati Bhavan, sorry Galahad, I mean, the Presidential complex, another, larger one the headquarters of the Indian Army. At least two of them are known members of the D-Company, another few have associated with the Punjabi Mafia before.”  
“Oh _shit_.” As always, it seems, everything is so much worse than expected, and Eggsy doesn’t quite know what to do, just closes his eyes for a moment and wishes he could ask Harry for advice, but there is no time, not even for a quick phone call. “Alright, let me see. Shiva, you and your men take the Army base, if there’s more of ‘em there, and I’ll go and try to save the President, if he’s what they want. Would be glad if you could borrow me one or two of your agents, though. I might be good, but I dunno if I’m that good.”

“Of course, Galahad”, Shiva nods, barks out a few commands in Hindi, which are too fast, too short for Eggsy to understand, then turns to him again, only that this time, his voice is softer, more quiet. “My flat is just next to the Army’s headquarters. Do you think I should tell me wife to wake up the kids and leave?”  
It’s a question Eggsy doesn’t know an answer to, one he has not expected, but the older man looks at him in a way that makes it impossible to tell him that. So Eggsy takes a moment to think, then says, “Nah, they should be fine. We’re Kingsman, we’ll handle this and no one will know. No one will get hurt.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and when he comes to the Presidential quarters, it's already too late. He knows it before he even opens the door, as if he could feel the death radiating from the room; he still enters.   
The President and his wife are still in their bed, his arm across her chest, as if he was trying to shield her with his boy, even if it was no use – someone put a bullet in his head and another one through his wives chest, her throat. There’s blood everywhere, on the blankets and pillows and walls, and Eggsy has to swallow hard, steel himself, before he turns around and leaves.

“’s too late”, he informs Shiva, or tries to. There is no answer.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and people get hurt.   
Hundreds, maybe even thousands, there is no way of knowing, not when the Army headquarters are just rubble and charred wood anymore, not when the countless explosions took several other houses with them.  
It must have been a last resort, everyone agrees on that, but that doesn’t make it better in any way, even if Eggsy takes a bit of solace in the fact that they foiled a nuclear detonation, if not a war. Shiva somehow made it out alive of the building before it exploded, together with two other agents, but Eggsy doubts he is happy about it.  
One of the buildings the explosions destroyed held his family, peacefully asleep.

Eggsy knows what will happen before he even sets foot into the Indian HQ, can’t even blame the head of this division for the punch he throws at him, doesn’t try to stop him. A fist collides with Eggsy’s jaw, splitting his bottom lip open, but Eggsy hardly feels the sting.   
“You said they would be safe”, Shiva hisses, and there are tears in his eyes and his voice, and Eggsy wishes he could cry, wishes he could curl up somewhere, just hide away.   
“I know”, he answers instead, because it’s not his place to cry; he is the reason for this. “I’m sorry.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Elyan tells him that Suchandra was executed just like her uncle and aunt and Eggsy just feels numb.

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Merlin says, “I’m so sorry, lad. We can’t bring you home yet, the public authorities won’t allow any air traffic whatsoever.”  
“What?” This time, Eggsy can almost, just almost hear his voice breaking, because he needs to get home, needs to be somewhere safe. Needs to curl up next to Harry, have the other man tell him it will be okay. “Can’t I just- Merlin, not even a normal plane? Can’t I just pretend I’m a tourist, nothing more?”  
There is a sigh and Eggsy knows that he won’t be home in a long, long time before Merlin has even said a word.

“I wish you could”, Merlin finally answers, “But they think that you killed the president. They have you on tape, and one of those bastards must have set you up somehow. Give me a week, maybe two, and I’ll get you and Elyan home. I promise.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Shiva refuses to give them the keys to any of the safe houses, so Eggsy has to pick the lock to the one Elyan found while hacking into the system in the middle of the night, hope that everyone at the Indian HQ is too busy with too many things to check in on the video feed of the safe houses.

It’s stuffy inside, dust covering every single surface, but it hardly matters, because it’s warm and dry and all Eggsy wants to do is to fall into a bed and sleep for centuries.

 

Eggsy turns thirty-two and it takes sixteen days until Merlin makes good on his promise. They don’t speak much during those weeks, but it’s still a relief that Elyan is there for Eggsy, and although he can only guess, he thinks that the younger man feels the same.   
The first few days, Elyan hardly speaks, and Eggsy thinks it might be the first time that he’s ever seen blood, seen death, but after that, he tells Eggsy bits and pieces from his life, his real name – Elliot – and that Kingsman recruited him straight out of a police station, just like Eggsy, only that he’d had hacked into some databank or other.

Eggsy mostly listens, glad for the distraction, hardly tells Elyan anything in return, but the other doesn’t seem to mind much, just lets Eggsy brood, lets him sleep, until the nightmares wake him up again, then tells him some more.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and it’s only when he’s back in dreary, grey, beloved England, that he finds out what happened to all the others.  
They have been lucky, apparently, and Eggsy almost laughs when Merlin tells him that, then stops, because Lamorac is dead, Roxy severely wounded, and Bors lost a leg, rendering him unfit for duty immediately.   
It’s a catastrophe, not quite like V-Day was one, but still.

When Harry comes to see him, thirty minutes after Eggsy has arrived, he doesn’t say a word, just wraps his arms around Eggsy’s frame, pulls him close. And he wants to cry, desperately so, but no tears come, as if he’s held them in for too long to let go now.   
So instead, he just melts against Harry, burrows his face in the crook of the other’s neck.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and sleeps in his own bed for the first time in almost three months. He wakes up thrice during the night, a scream perched just under his chin, constricting his throat, ready to be released.   
His tossing and turning, or maybe the sounds he still makes, wake Harry up as well, who, sleep-dazed and concerned, asks what is wrong, offers tea or cuddling or an early breakfast, all of which Eggsy declines.

Part of him wants to tell Harry, wants to confess that he hears Anshi scream, although he never saw her die, that he dreams of charred, tiny hands reaching for him, begging, asking him why he did what he did, but another, much larger part, cannot bear the thought.   
Harry would have saved them, he knows it, and although the other has told him that it wasn’t his fault, Harry just doesn’t know. Doesn’t know that it is, that he could at least have saved three of them. And how could Harry forgive him if he can’t forgive himself?

So instead of searching comfort in the way he wanted to so desperately when he was gone, Eggsy gets up and ignores Harry’s eyes boring into his back while he gets dressed quickly. He leaves while the sky his still dark and the sun hidden behind the horizon, doesn’t come back for hours.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and lets the doctor, whose name he has already forgotten again, prod and poke his body, check his eyes and ears and mouth. It seems ridiculous, somehow, to check for injuries to his flesh when what is hurting is Eggsy’s mind, his heart.   
He still lets them and tries to stifle the hollow, joyless laugh trying to make it past his lips.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and visits Roxy, who is still lying in her hospital bed, not allowed to move. She’s been stabbed, the knife nicking one of her kidneys, has been beaten and kicked and left for dead and Eggsy takes her hand, presses it to his lips for a few, long seconds.   
All this time, he has never thought about how it would be to lose her, hasn’t even considered the possibility. She had always been so strong, his indestructible best friend, and yet here Roxy is, looking sickly pale, bruises still marring her pretty face.   
Fleetingly, Eggsy wonders what they told her Harry.

Then there is the lightest flutter of fingertips against the back of his hand, and Roxy mutters, “Eggsy?”  
Her voice is so soft he can hardly hear it, and that is enough to make him ache all over, the guilt he carries around with him always multiplying, as if he could somehow have prevented this, could have taken the beating for her. He would have, he knows it.  
“Yeah, Rox. I’m here, don’t worry. I’m here.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and doesn’t know how many hours have passed when Harry comes to find him. The older man places a hand on his shoulder and Eggsy flinches; even if it’s only for a second, it’s enough for Harry to notice, retract his hand.  
Eggsy isn’t sure if he misses the touch or if he is glad to be rid of it.

“You should come home with me, Eggsy”, Harry says, and his voice is soft, tender, hurts and heals at the same time. “Let her sleep, come back tomorrow.”  
He gets no answer, just a shake of Eggsy’s head.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and comes back that night, drunk and smelling of cigarettes, of Elliot’s aftershave.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and Merlin is fifty-six, comes to his office when Eggsy least expects it, isn’t even pretending to be working, but just stares into the distance, trying not to think.   
“Good morning, Eggsy”, the other man greets and Eggsy nods, suddenly too exhausted to speak. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. About what happened. We don’t know everything, not the way you do, but all of us have been in a similar situation before- Albert, myself, even Harry – so we might be able to help. If you let us.”

He is still standing, looking both concerned and as if he expected this to change anything at all – it doesn’t, and although it hasn’t been long yet since he got back, Eggsy already thinks that maybe nothing ever will.   
But that isn’t the answer Merlin wants, won’t be the one that’ll make him go away, so Eggsy forces himself to smile, even if that smile tugs at his lips as if he was carving it into his flesh with a blunt razor. “Sure, Merlin. Thanks.”

If it’s convincing, Eggsy cannot tell, but it does the trick; Merlin sighs, nods, and leaves.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and Harry talks him into seeing the psychiatrist Kingsman has hired, and after three or four sessions, Eggsy is glad for it, mostly. Doctor Carlisle helps, even if Eggsy never tells her the complete truth, not all of it, just enough. There is doctor-patient confidentiality, yes, but the thought of just one more person knowing about Anshi and her sister, her mother, makes him feel sick.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and Harry home with take-out and a smile on his lips; Eggsy’ stomach turns at the thought of eating.   
“I thought we could just have a lazy night together”, Harry explains while he unwraps the containers, fluffy naan bread and three different kinds of curry, the samosas Eggsy has always been so fond of. “Like we used to. Have dinner, maybe watch some TV…. Talk if you feel up for it. I know it’s been hard for you, the mission, those two weeks in India, and maybe I wasn’t- maybe I didn’t do what you would have needed me to, but I hope you know you can always talk to me about it. About anything.”

He sounds so sincere that Eggsy almost forgets. The words are on his tongue, ready to be spoken out-loud – _I killed her, Harry, it was my fault, she could be alive if not for me_ – but he stops himself just in time.   
This could hurt Harry, will hurt him, but Eggsy would rather have the other in pain than watching those brown eyes turn cold with disgust.   
“No, thanks”, he mutters instead, and he was right, the words hurt and Eggsy is so, so sorry. “I’m not hungry.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and Elliot picks him up after another entirely useless day at work, filled with an appointment with Doctor Carlisle that left him feeling empty, a stilted, awkward lunch with Harry that left him feeling even worse.  
It’s become a regular thing by now; while he used to spend most of his free time at home before, at Roxy’s or his mum’s house, there’s at least two nights a week, usually more, which he spends with Elliot, either at a pub or the other’s flat. Eggsy has always liked him, but now it’s more than that still; Elliot doesn’t ask.   
He doesn’t have to, because he was there, right beside him, and that alone is more of a relief than Eggsy would ever thought possible. It doesn’t make Anshi stop screaming, but it quiets her down a bit.

“’Sup?”, Elliot asks like always, holds the door open for Eggsy to pass through; out of the corner of his eye, Eggsy can see Harry stepping outside one of the meeting room, stopping dead in his tracks. He ignores it.  
“Nothing, really”, he answers instead, walks out into the crisp night air. “Same boring stuff. Your place again?”  
“Sure. I’ve stocked up on that gin you like so much, just in case you feel like making martinis again.” Elliot smiles, a soft, tentative thing that looks good on his face anyway; Eggsy doesn’t smile back, but doesn’t flinch when the younger man puts an arm around his shoulder.

When they turn to walk, Eggsy sees that Harry is still watching.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and everything has changed. It's the small things, mostly – he still can’t sleep, can’t speak the way he used to without hearing Anshi’s imitation of it, can’t bear Harry’s touch for long before feeling like he is soiling the other somehow –and yet they still seem to hurt the most.   
Back in India, he thought that once he’d come home, everything would go back to normal, that he’d be able to forget, somehow find his place in this life again, but now that he is, it seems he has lost his way.

Harry tries his best to make him feel better, make him talk, but even he stops after a myriad of failed attempts, looking confused and angry and sometimes, when he thinks Eggsy isn’t watching, utterly ruined.  
But even that changes, even if it’s subtle, so subtle that it takes Eggsy months to notice, but seems even more intense once he does.   
Harry talks less, drinks more, has mood swings which sometimes leave him all soft and sad and mellow, sometimes so tense it seems to only take one wrong word to make him blow up, sometimes as affectionate as he always used to be. They fight more than they ever did before, and every time they go to bed without having kissed one last time, Eggsy feels hollow inside, like he was missing something more than just a press of lips, than just Harry’s arms around him.   
It feels like they are losing each other and Eggsy doesn’t know what to do to stop it.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and Harry is fifty-eight, has turned a year older sometime along the way. He looks tired, but his eyes soften when Eggsy all but stumbles into the living room – he has had more than enough beer at HQ with Elliot, but it doesn’t seem to be enough yet so there is a cab parked outside that will take them to the closest pub.  
“I didn’t expect you home so soon”, he starts, and sounds so hopeful, so earnest it makes Eggsy’s chest ache, not only his heart but all of it. It’s another thing he puts on the list of things he wants to forget about tonight. “Do you want me to fix you some supper, or maybe we could-“  
“Sorry”, Eggsy interrupts before he can say anything more, before Harry can make him change his mind. “Gotta go, Elliot’s waiting outside. Just wanted to tell you that I won’t be coming home tonight. Don’t wait up.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two, comes home in the early morning, feeling worse than even the night before. It’s been a little more than five months since Anshi died, and there is a black pit where his stomach used to be, weighing him down.  
He somehow makes it up the stairs, cursing how steep they are under his breath. One of these days, he’s going to kill himself falling down.

Harry wakes up when he opens the door to their bedroom – Eggsy can sense it, the way his body tenses under the sheets, the slight hitch in his breath – and all of a sudden, Eggsy can’t bear the thought of going inside, slipping under the sheets next to him.   
It would mean at least a small amount of comfort, of solace and he doesn’t deserve that, more so even, Harry doesn’t deserve that. Harry deserves better, Harry deserves the person he used to be and maybe, the person he will be again someday, at some point.

So instead, he closes the door again, turns around and, not for the first time, slips into the guestroom instead and hopes that the burning in his chest will let him sleep.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and there are two suitcases waiting in the hallway when he comes back home from yet another day at HQ, another session with his psychiatrist, another hour spent with Elliot in a pub without talking, just drinking.  
He finds Harry in the kitchen, a cup of steaming tea clasped between his hands and his face unreadable, a riddle Eggsy should be able to solve, but isn’t.   
“D’you have a meeting somewhere? Or why did you pack?”, Eggsy asks, walks around the table to get himself a glass of water, his fingers just brushing Harry’s shoulder, not feeling when the other tenses.

“No”, Harry tells him, and Eggsy can hear in his voice that something is wrong, even before he continues; it’s too calm, too emotionless, like Harry is trying his best not to let it waver, let it break. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re moving out.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider this a formal apology for all of this - I am so, so sorry and none of this was planned at all, it just happened.   
> At first, I didn't even think about a part about jealousy, but then that happened and turned into... well, this. A bit more than just a little bit of jealousy, I guess.   
> I'll fix it, though, eventually. Promise.   
> ♥


	11. Chapter 11

Eggsy is thirty-two and certain he must have misheard. There is no other way, no way this can be happening, not after all this time, not after all they’ve been through.  
“What?”, he asks, tonelessly, his voice ringing hollow in his own ears, and Harry looks so tired, so resigned, like he has been through this in his head a hundred thousand times, found an ending that broke his heart every single time.  
“You’re moving out. You know why, Eggsy.” Harry is still holding onto his cup, like he is trying to warm himself up somehow. “Did you really think I was so dense I wouldn’t notice?

“Notice what?” Eggsy can’t see Harry’s whole face, was too shocked to be able to move his muscles, get them to lift his legs, carry him closer, but he does so now. He doesn’t sit down but at least he is standing in front of Harry, so neither of them can pretend he doesn’t see what is going on behind the other’s eyes. “What are you talkin’ about?”  
“This. All of this.” He doesn’t sound angry, and that is what makes it worse, Harry sounds defeated, like he has fought too many battles to even try and win this one, and Eggsy doesn’t know what to do, what to say. “You and Elyan. At first I didn’t believe it, then I thought maybe If you stopped… but you aren’t stopping, are you? And by now I think that the best , the least hurtful way for both of us, is to just admit that we tried and we failed and for you to go…wherever you want to go. I booked you a hotel room for the next three weeks, the confirmation is in one of the suitcases, so you can look for a flat of your own, or go live with him, whatever you want. I don’t need to know. I don’t even think I want to.”

Harry ends the last sentence like a final goodbye, like he is expecting Eggsy to turn around and leave, and he still can’t think, his brain to slow to comprehend what is happening, what the man in front of him is saying. So he breathes out the only few words he can think of.  
“You think Elliot and me…? You think I’m cheating on you? The fuck, Harry, I never-“

Only that he never gets to finish, because Harry lifts his head fully, chin raised high and eyes blazing with that fire Eggsy has seen a couple of times before, fuelled by righteous anger and what Eggsy is coming to understand is an intimate, all-encompassing ache.  
“Oh, just spare me the part where you play dumb, will you? It’s an insult to both of our intelligences.” While Harry’s voice had been collected, but soft before, it’s got a sharp edge to it now, one meant to hurt, not just to scare away. “I did not become the head of an international spy agency by being completely clueless, no matter what you might think. Half the nights you don’t come home, and when you do, you smell like alcohol and cigarettes and an aftershave that isn’t yours. If you stay home, you won’t talk to me, at least about nothing of import. I’ve tried, Eggsy, I asked and I gave you time and I asked again, I offered every kind of help I could, but you never wanted it. But Elyan, the young, attractive hacker genius, you spend hours upon hours in his office, you bring him souvenirs from your mission while you can’t look at me half the time, won’t touch me. I know you well enough to notice it when you feel guilty, believe me.”  
Harry’s chest is heaving; it looks like he has been holding all these words inside for weeks at least, which might explain why, when he adds something, his voice has lost its bite. “I don’t even know why you bothered to stay this long when being with me when obviously is so distasteful to you.”

Those last words sound almost like before, like Harry is aching all over, but even that is not enough to calm the anger his voice has sparked inside of Eggsy. It’s the strangest mixture, something in between pain and a fear that’s too vast to put into words, covered with anger to make it bearable, to keep some semblance of control.  
If his time at the estates, Kingsman, has taught Eggsy one thing, it’s that losing control is the worst possible outcome of any situation.

He’s not thinking clearly, he knows that much, still not quite able to comprehend what is happening, so Eggsy latches onto the feeling that pierces the sadness and guilt he has been drowning in those last months, holds it tightly. Reacts in the worst possible way, because it’s the only one he can still see, hisses instead of speaking calmly, his eyes bright green with rage.  
“Oh, o’ course. Because there could be no other reason than that, could there be? No other reason than my shallowness or me wanting a good, nice fuck why I should not want to talk to the great Harry Hart, who is above fuckin’ doubt and criticism, who tried his best, but still is shunned and deceived by the dirty pleb be took into his bed. That’s how you see it, isn’t it? As if I couldn’t have problems that don’t have anything to do with you.”

“Well, excuse me that I thought that after more than four years of relationship I had some influence on you.” Harry’s voice is as lethal as his blows could be, cutting and fierce, and yet it only makes Eggsy angrier, doesn’t scare him at all. It feels like nothing will ever be able to scare him ever again; if he loses this, and it seems he already has, then there’s nothing he can fear for anymore. “Although, apparently not as much as your precious Elyan did. While I only made you wear suits, he changed you inside out, and that in less than a quarter of the time. You don’t even sounds like you used to!”  
“Which has nothing to do with Elyan and all with a girl who died because of me!”

The words ring in Eggsy’s ears, echo in his mind; he never wanted to speak them out-loud, and yet it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Harry despises him already and there is nothing that could make this worse.  
“Because every time I talk like I used to, I can fuckin’ hear her trying to imitate my accent and it fuckin’ hurts and fuck you, Harry, for thinking everything is always about you, when it fucking isn’t.”

It takes a moment until Eggsy realises that his throat is closing up, that there are tears prickling in his eyes, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because he can’t stop the words anymore, not after having everything bottled up for so long. “I can’t sleep and I can’t think and I can’t dream because I keep seeing her face and Elliot is the only one who understands because he was there and I don’t have to talk to him about it because he _knows_. And you come and you- you think I’m sleepin’ with him, because you still don’t trust me enough to know that I never fuckin’ would.”  
He’s still fixed in place, unmoving, but Eggsy’s hands are clenched into fists, trying to concentrate on the sensation of short fingernails cutting into his palm so he won’t get completely overwhelmed by the turmoil of feelings inside of him.

“How can you not know that?”, he asks, more himself than the other man, his voice quiet again, because all the anger seems to have evaporated, because Harry thinks he is cheating on him, Harry is asking him to move out. “How can _you_ not know that when you’re supposed to be the one who knows me inside out?”  
For what feels like a year, a decade, an eternity, there is no answer, and Eggsy cannot tell what the other one is feeling, because Harry’s face is blank, the kind of mask he wears for official meetings, then he answers, “Was that it? The girl? Was that the reason..?”  
“Yes.”  
“You could have talked to me. I would have listened.”

The words make Eggsy smile wryly, clench his fists harder. Part of him wants to lash out at Harry again, but he simply doesn’t have the strength left. Not when he is watching his life crumble and shatter in front of him. “I couldn’t. You wouldn’t have understood and… I never wanted you to know.”  
Harry is just looking at him for a few, long moments, then lets go of the tea cup to fold his hands instead, rest his chin on them.

“When I was twenty-seven”, he begins, and his voice is still steady, but the tone has changed once again, every word pronounced deliberately, like it was of utmost importance. “I shot a boy. It was a decision I had to make within a second or two, someone had handed him a parcel we thought contained a bomb and he was about to board a bus, which could have been blown up easily. I had to choose between definitely killing a ten year old boy and potentially saving dozens and letting him live and risking their death. I shot him, ran over to try and defuse the bomb, only to find that it was not a bomb, but new books for school.”  
There is a pause, and Eggsy half-notices that Harry’s hands are shaking, the other’s eyes are not quite meeting his. “I almost shot myself right there. I had the gun crammed under my chin and I know I would have pulled the trigger if it hadn’t been for Merlin screaming in my ear. So I would have listened and I would have understood, good God, Eggsy, and even if I hadn’t, you could have at least let me try.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and his eyes are red-rimmed, hurt from crying, but Harry is warm and solid next to him, and for now that is all he needs.  
“Can I stay?”, he asks the thin air in front of him, because he doesn’t know if he could bear to look Harry in the eye if he says no; they are not okay, he knows it, no matter how much that hurts.  
But there’s no refusal, just an arm tightening around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and Harry muttering into his hair, “Of course, Eggsy. Of course.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and Harry is fifty-eight, waits for him downstairs the next morning, a cup of tea in his hands. The sight is more than just familiar and yet makes Eggsy’s heart clench now, his stomach drop; he wonders if he’ll ever be able to see Harry like this again without thinking of the night before.  
“Good morning”, Harry greets and he doesn’t sound angry anymore, doesn’t sound heartbroken either, just serious, almost like he does in the office. “We need to talk, Eggsy.”

It might be one of the lines that make most people anxious, but if anything it makes Eggsy relax, because as long as Harry still wants to talk to him, things can still be fixed. And they do need to talk, even he can see this after last night.  
He doesn’t know just how badly he has hurt Harry, and he doesn’t think the older man knows just how he feels yet, but they can fix this, have to, Eggsy wouldn’t know what to do if they didn’t. Because everything has changed, but not that he loves Harry, truly, madly, deeply.

So he nods, sits down opposite of Harry, fighting with himself if he should take the other’s hand at least for a second, since he doesn’t dare to press a kiss to Harry’s cheek, let alone his lips. He does, in the end, even if his heart is beating wildly, and Harry doesn’t seem to mind, even squeezes his fingers for a few sweet moments before letting go again.  
“I think we both said things that we didn’t mean yesterday, or at least didn’t mean like that”, Harry starts, and his voice is solemn, the words pronounced clearly, carefully. “At least I did. And I might do it again, just now, not because I want to offend you, but because I need to know. I need to hear you say it.”

He takes a deep breath, and Eggsy knows, or at least can imagine what Harry wants to ask, and it hurts his heart, but if he has to, he’ll answer every question the other wants to ask.  
“Did you sleep with Elyan?”, Harry asks and his voice sounds quiet, not yet sure, but hopeful that the answer will be the one he needs to hear.  
And Eggsy gives it. “No.”  
“And you did not want to either.”  
“No. Never.”

There is a pause in which Harry just breathes, slowly, and Eggsy hasn’t noticed that the other isn’t looking at him until Harry lifts his head, his eyes meeting Eggsy’s. His expression is still guarded, his voice tentative when he asks his next, his last question.  
“And yet, after all of this, you still want this.”

It’s not what Eggsy expected to hear, because it is nothing he ever, ever questioned, never thought that Harry would. And maybe it hurts the most, more even that Harry thinking he was cheating, because he always, always thought that Harry knew just how much he loved him.  
This time, Eggsy doesn’t hesitate before he grips Harry’s hand tightly, needing the other to know how much he means this.  
“Yes, Harry, oh God, yes, of course I do.”  
And there is a smile that slowly spreads across Harry’s lips, trickling down from the other’s eyes to his lips, curling the corners upwards; it’s sincere and hopeful, warms Eggsy’s core, his heart.  
“Alright”, he says, squeezes Eggsy’s hand back. “Alright, we can do this. I don’t know how yet, but we can.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and they sit down that afternoon, after Harry has called off all meetings he had for the day, a pot of tea on the table between them. It feels a little like that first breakfast they had together, unsure and tense, but hopeful, and it feels a bit like the first time Eggsy has looked at Harry in more than half a year.  
He has aged, and it aches that he hasn’t noticed, the deeper lines around Harry’s mouth, the dark bags under his eyes, the light scar that stands out less now that Harry is paler than ever before. His eyes, though, his eyes look the same, and Eggsy takes comfort in that, hopes he didn’t break too much to mend.

“I know this will be hard”, Harry says softly, doesn’t offer a smile, but his hand to hold instead, and Eggsy takes it, holds it tight. “But you need to tell me. Everything, especially the painful parts. I don’t… I don’t trust you right now, not like I should, so I need to understand what happened, why it did.”  
Eggsy just nods, mutely, for one second overwhelmed with the other’s words – _I don’t trust you_ – because this is what he never wanted. This is what he always feared, from their first meeting on, that he would somehow lose Harry’s trust, his respect.  
“I…”, he starts, unsure how to go on, his lips feeling like they’ve been glued shut. “Her name was Anshi. Shiva’s daughter, his – the youngest. I told you about her, I think, I don’t know.”

It’s only when Harry squeezes his hand that Eggsy notices the tears blurring his vision. He hasn’t said Anshi’s name out-loud since she died, and while it should be freeing to do it now, because that is what stories tell, what movies show, it isn’t. It feels like dragging barbed wire through his vocal cords, like he is drowning all over again.  
“You did”, Harry says softly, gives him something to hold onto. “Once or twice.”  
“Shiva brought her to HQ sometimes. She’d – she’d run around, with that ratty stuffed dog of hers, ask everyone questions. Reminded me of Daisy so much sometimes. And she’d try and imitate my accent, even if it never sounded-“

Eggsy stops, mid-sentence; there are tears flowing down his cheeks, the ones he held back ever since they arrived in that safe house in India, and Eggsy lets them come, doesn’t even wipe them away. Instead, he just takes a deep breath, looks up at Harry, catches the other’s eyes.  
He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to say it twice, so this time has to count, has to make Harry understand.  
“Shiva’s flat was close to the Indian army HQ and he asked me – he asked if they were safe, if he should phone his wife, tell her to grab the children and go-“ The last word comes out as a sob, wet and pitiful, and Harry squeezes his hand again, brings it up to his lips to press a kiss to the knuckles. He doesn’t do more, though, doesn’t touch and doesn’t speak, and Eggsy is glad for it. It doesn’t feel like he deserves even this small amount of comfort. “I said no. I said they were safe, _I said they were safe_ and then the building exploded, everything did, Harry. I killed her, she’d be alive if not for me.”

By now, Eggsy can hardly breathe for the sobbing, can’t see for the tears in his eyes, but he is almost glad for it, because no matter what Harry said, Eggsy still can’t imagine to see anything but disgust in his eyes.  
“It should have been me”, Eggsy chokes out nonetheless, unsure if Harry can even understand what he is saying, or if the words are drowned out by the sobs wrecking through him. “I should be dead, not her, I’d do anything to take her place.”

There is silence and then Harry lets go of his hand, lets him break down alone for a few, endless seconds, before there is the sound of a chair being pushed back and arms wrap themselves around Eggsy’s waist, pull him close.  
Harry doesn’t tells him that it wasn’t his fault, and Eggsy has never been so grateful for anything in his life before.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and feels like he has cried an entire ocean, his eyes feeling like they have been scrubbed with sandpaper and acid, his lips are dry and chapped. Harry is sitting on the couch right next to him, their hands locked in between them, Harry’s thumb brushing over his knuckles again and again, a soft sensation that keeps him grounded.

The guilt hasn’t vanished, and Eggsy doubts it ever will completely, he doesn’t feel free, but he feels better, just a little bit lighter, because when his tears dried up, Harry had still looked at him with nothing but tenderness, understanding.

“You know, when I was younger, about sixteen, I had the worst crush on my best friend”, Harry says, doesn’t stop stroking his thumb over Eggsy’s knuckles but also doesn’t give any indication why he has brought this up, what made him think of it. “His name was Guy, he was tall and graceful in the strangest way, like a foal that would make falling over look elegant anyway. Dark hair, dark eyes and too-pale skin, but God, I was smitten. Thought I would die if he didn’t love me back.”  
There is a pause, because Harry apparently said all he wanted to and Eggsy doesn’t know what to answer anyway, not until he asks, “Did he?”

“No.” Harry smiles softly, a faint, fragile thing, and Eggsy would like to kiss him but doesn’t know if he is allowed to. When he will be allowed to do so again. “Or at least I don’t think so. I never asked him.”  
“Why?”  
“I was scared.”  
It’s the answer he expected and yet one that he never thought he’d get; Eggsy grips Harry’s hand a little tighter.

And suddenly he gets what Harry is doing, what this is – Harry is offering a secret for the one Eggsy told him before. None as horrible, possibly not even one that only the two of them know now, but a secret nonetheless and the gesture makes Eggsy’s eyes well up with tears he didn’t know he could still cry.

“Thank you”, he mutters softly, because he needs Harry to know that he understands, then says, “When I was twelve, I went to this shop with Jamal, we wanted to lift some gum, but we chickened out and put it back...”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and Harry informs him that they have found their new Bors, a young woman with dark eyes and darker hair still called Thelma. She was Tristan’s proposal; Eggsy can’t even remember the name of the young man he picked out of the databank Kingsman has of potential candidates.  
Something with an A, he thinks, but doesn’t have the strength to try and remember any more.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and wakes up with his cheeks wet with tears and his mouth dries, Harry’s hand on his shoulder.  
“It’s alright”, the other murmurs, voice still soft with sleep, and Eggsy wants to shake his hand off, doesn’t want to be near anyone, least of all Harry, who was never supposed to see him in this state. “How about you go and have a shower and I’ll fix us some early breakfast?”

The refusal is already on the tip of his tongue, just needs to be spoken out-loud and Eggsy aches to say the words, but swallows them instead. Because he remembers Harry’s face that night, remembers that he isn’t the only one hurting.  
“’Kay”, he answers instead, nods for good measure. And Harry smiles.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two, opens the file on his desk with trembling fingers. He still isn’t allowed to go on missions, and although part of him hates not being able to distract himself, he knows it’s for the best, that he’d be a danger not only to himself but everyone around him as well.  
Doctor Carlisle always tells him how important it is to move on, and Eggsy never knew how to, until Roxy mentioned her time in Washington during those awful months Eggsy spent in India, and Eggsy realised that he never found out just what happened to the organisation they still cannot put a name to, after they blew up half of New Delhi.

He never asked and no one seemed to think he needed to know, but maybe it’ll help, maybe it’ll change something.  
So Eggsy forces his eyes to focus on the first sentence, forces his brain to read the words.

The first report is from Merlin, a synopsis of what they could find out from Lamorac’s feed, Roxy’s notes scribbled into the margins, right across the printed letters.  
It speaks of dozens of members of Parliament replaced or recruited, of the Ministers of Health, Interior and Defence being compromised, of a careless transmission on Lamorac’s part that got picked up by the wrong people, revealed a little too much of Kingsman and far too much about their plan to stop them.

No buildings were blown up, or at least none of them are mentioned; the report just mentions two Ministers dead and more than twenty members of Parliament imprisoned, then, like an afterthought, the shot that killed Lamorac and the death of the woman holding the gun at Roxy’s hands.  
There are no details and Eggsy has been writing these reports himself for long enough to know what that means – there can’t have been much left of the shooter once Roxy was done with her.

Eggsy sits back, blinks once, twice, to keep the tears that always want to be spilled these days back. He doesn’t feel better, but he doesn’t feel worse either; he keeps reading.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and the sun has long since set when he finally looks up from the file again. His eyes are burning and his stomach growling and yet he can’t find the strength to get up and find something to eat.  
It wasn’t easy to find the end goal the organisation was working for, neither for Merlin nor for Eggsy, but he thinks he might understand it now. A group of people in the right positions to fire off nuclear weapons, provoke a war, all while the others bought up land that would be spared of the radiation, high in the mountains, deep in the deserts, built bunkers and stored away supplies.

It reminds Eggsy of Valentine in the most cruel way; they built an arc, just like Valentine did, to keep enough alive to continue the human race, only that these people didn’t choose and pick, instead intended to sell off their land to the highest bidder, keep alive who would abide their rules.  
Eggsy can hardly suppress a shiver at the thought of what could have happened, closes the file, knowing that he won’t ever open it again.

And yet, while peaceful is too heavy a word to describe what he feels, he is calmer now. Anshi’s death doesn’t mean less now, isn’t put into perspective by the knowledge of what they prevented from happening, but it’s easier to bear what he has done to that bright little girl when he has saved a million others.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and hardly manages to Harry’s office before the tears come, overwhelm him.  
The other is alone, thank God, jumps up and crosses the space between them so he can catch Eggsy when his legs seem to give out under him. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t ask, just holds him, and Eggsy hides his face in Harry’s shirt, lets himself break.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two, eyes swollen and lips cracked, wrapped in Harry’s too big jacket, and they kiss for the first time since that night, Harry’s hands cupping his face and holding him steady. It’s a soft, gentle kiss, meant to reassure, not to entice, and Eggsy sighs into it, curls further into Harry.  
His own hands snake around the other’s waist and Harry chuckles into the kiss when Eggsy slides close and closer, until he’s all but perched on Harry’s lap.  
“Are you feeling better now?”, he mutters against Eggsy’s lips, who nods, even if he isn’t quite sure if it’s the truth, or just what he wishes the truth to be.

“Do you want to talk?”  
It’s clear that Harry wants him to, but for now Eggsy has to refuse him that, just shakes his head and melts further against the other, wondering when exactly it got this easy to be close to each other again. If he could have had the relief of Harry’s arms around him the entire time.  
“Later”, Eggsy mutters, and feels the air around them change; Harry fears that he’s being cut out again, he knows it, so Eggsy pulls back, no matter how hard it is. Looks Harry in the eyes, and adds, “I promise. “Just…let me stay? Like this. For now.”

There’s a second in which Harry’s face remains the same frighteningly blank slate, then his eyes soften, his lips curl ever so slightly. He pulls Eggsy closer again, lets him burrow his face in the crook of his neck, the older man’s arms tight and warm around him.  
“Of course. I’m sorry, Eggsy, of course.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two, making tea for both Roxy and him when Elliot enters the kitchen, lips curling into a smile when he notices Eggsy.  
“Oh hi, haven’t seen you around in some time”, he greets and Eggsy feels almost uncomfortable with how easily he smiles back, how it feels good to talk to the other again. It feels like cheating, although the closest they ever got to each other was hugging, half-asleep and completely drunk.  
“Hey”, he greets back anyway, because Elliot is his friend and doesn’t deserve this. “Spent some time at home, sorting things out. But good to see you too.”

“India, huh?”, Elliot asks, and his voice is concerned all of a sudden, his eyes earnest. It’s that what Eggsy missed the most, what drew him to the other in the first place; Elliot knows, Elliot cares.  
“Yeah. Always. Are you alright?”  
Elliot hasn’t killed a little girl, and yet Eggsy knows that he has nightmares of his own, fears and guilt and anger laden on his shoulders. And he doesn’t have Harry to wake him up, doesn’t have arms that wrap around him and a kind voice to beckon him away from the edge; all the things Eggsy had forgotten he had before.  
“Dunno”, Elliot answers, shrugs, and Eggsy knows it means no. “Sleeping is fucking hard. Being awake is, too. Harder now that you’re not drunk next to me every other day.”

The words seem to hold some meaning Eggsy cannot decipher so he ignores it, just like he ignores the hint of guilt when he puts the tea bags he’s holding down, reaches out to pull Elliot in a half-hug instead. “’s gonna be fine. Eventually.”  
Elliot returns the hug, tension leaving his muscles within seconds. “I hope so, Eggsy. I really do.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and gets Doctor Carlisle to ask Elliot to come and see him thrice a week instead of just two times.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and slowly learns how to talk when his mouth feels sewn shut; Harry is fifty-eight and learns how to trust him again.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and Jonathan, his proposal for Lamorac’s position is a young man he has never seen in person before. He’s twenty-eight, from a good family and a posh school and Eggsy never thought he’d pick him as a candidate, but Jonathan is clever and ruthless if needs be, kind under any other circumstances.  
His eyes light up when Eggsy takes him to the bullet train and for a second, Eggsy believes he knows how Harry must have felt, showing him all this, taking in the excitement he can hardly feel anymore after he has seen so much.

It’s not just nice because seeing someone happy is, but because it gives Eggsy some of that joy back, no matter how small that bit is. This is what he fights for on every mission, people like Jonathan, who have their whole life still ahead of them.  
So he slaps a hand on the other’s shoulder, gives him a smile and ushers him into the barracks, winking at Merlin when he catches the older man’s eyes.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and Albert asks, “So what’s going on with you and Harry? I’ve been wondering for some time now, but I didn’t get to ask before I went to Nicaragua and Merlin won’t tell me anything because he is a mean little prick sometimes.”  
Half of it is hard to understand because the older man is talking around a mouthful of Shepard’s pie, but Eggsy gets enough to know what Albert wants to know, even if he’d rather he didn’t. It’s the one thing he never really thought about when they first started dating, that everything between them would affect the rest of Kingsman as well.

“It’s… I dunno. We had a fight, like a big one”, he starts to explain, wishes he had finished the beer sitting in front of him already; it would make this so much easier. “He thought I was cheating on him. With Elliot, that kid from tech. Asked me to move out, all that, before I could convince him that I didn’t.”  
“Ah.” Albert nods, puts another fork of pie into his mouth and it’s not at all the reaction Eggsy expected.  
“You don’t seem surprised. “  
“That’s because I’m not.” Albert takes another bite, then sits back, looking at Eggsy. Usually, he’s all cheeky smiles and sunshine, but not today, not now; his expression is thoughtful, almost blank. “You see, most of us were wondering what was going on with you and Elyan. It was obvious you were getting on well before that mission, but ever since… and I never doubted that you love Harry, but the kid’s got a pretty face and he wasn’t really making a secret of the crush he has on you.”

At first, Eggsy is sure that he has misheard – there can’t be any other way, right? – but Albert looks at him, doesn’t seem to want to add anything.  
“What? You must’ve gotten something wrong there, mate, Elyan having a crush on me? No way.”  
His answer makes Albert laugh, which isn’t at all the reaction Eggsy was looking for. “Oh please. You can’t be that blind, can you? He’s utterly infatuated. It’d be cute if I didn’t know it wouldn’t turn out well.”  
He seems utterly convinced, and although he doesn’t want to, Eggsy takes a moment to consider. And it makes sense.  
Elyan is friendly to everyone around here, but he’s always been more than just that to Eggsy, he makes him tea, listens to Eggsy talking or his silence for hours, sends him more texts than Eggsy can answer, tries to spend as much time together as possible. Takes him out to bars and lets him crash at his place, hugs him when Eggsy can’t even sit upright anymore.  
And if he’s so obvious, like Albert suggested, then Harry must have seen it too, must have noticed.  
“Oh shit”, Eggsy breathes out, and Albert just nods.  
“Exactly.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and Daisy is ten, looks just as uncomfortable as Eggsy feels. It’s a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach, a sense of dread, because he doesn’t know the boyfriend his mother has chosen and he could be… well, he could be as bad as Dean was.  
Still, he tries not to jump to conclusions, tries to be happy for Michelle like he still hopes that his mum will be for him one day, no matter how long he’ll have to wait.

“Jack’ll be here any second, I’m sure”, Michelle mutters although it’s just three minutes past seven, and Eggsy tries his best to smile at her, as reassuringly as possible.  
“Yeah, sure. I mean, he’s a busy man. Ya said he worked at a Sainsbury’s, right?”  
“He’s the department manager, even.” She sounds proud and Eggsy thinks it’s a strange kind of adorable, and really, she deserves someone who she can be proud of.

He just hopes that Jack will be that man.

It only takes another few minutes until the doorbell rings, and although Eggsy wants to get up, get a quick look of the man who his mum decided to love, he stays put, watches her sigh in relief and leave the room to let him in.  
She comes back only a minute later with a man in tow, who looks like any other. He’s about the same age as Michelle - in his early fifties – with a receding hairline and a faint stubble, a bit of a gut that makes his shirt a little too tight, but his eyes are a soft, slightly nervous blue, his smile just the same.  
He looks absolutely average, and God, Eggsy is more than just happy for it.

Dean, when he first stepped into their life, had been charming, handsome, almost a little too understanding, and anything like that would have made Eggsy wary within seconds.  
But Jack smiles at them, slightly awkward when Eggsy stands up to shake his hand. “You must be Eggsy. I’ve heard so much about you.”  
“Nice t’ meet you”, Eggsy replies, makes himself smile even if he doesn’t quite know if he means it yet.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and Jack leaves them with a kiss to his mother’s lips and Michelle comes back to the living room where Daisy and he are still sitting on the sofa, a hopeful smile on her lips.  
“And?”, she asks, doesn’t have to say more for Eggsy to know what she wants to hear.  
“He seems nice?”, Daisy answers before Eggsy can even start, fiddles with the hem of her skirt. “I mean, he’s a bit borin’, but he ain’t too bad.”  
“That’s…good, isn’t it?”  
“’s okay, I guess?”  
Michelle looks fairly pleased, not having expected anything better from her younger daughter, who fortunately doesn’t remember anything about Dean, something Eggsy thanks every possible higher power.  
“And ya, Eggsy? What d’ya think?”

She sounds nervous again, and Eggsy takes a moment to think about everything – dinner was pleasant enough, Jack seems to be nice, but slightly less exciting than he expected him to be – then slowly nods, watches her light up. “He’s alright, I guess? As Daisy said, he doesn’t seem to be the most exciting bloke, but he seems stable. Safe. And that’s what you need, isn’t it?”  
Michelle looks gentle, almost touched, folds her hands in front of her. She keeps turning one of the rings on her fingers, something Eggsy has seen her do a hundred thousand times before. “Yeah, it is. He is.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and takes a sip of the tea he brought down to the tech department, looks at Elliot in front of him. Says, “Listen, mate. There’s something I think I should tell you about, or rather, should have told you about before.”  
Elliot perks up, scared and hopeful at the same time, tilts his head a little. “Yeah?”  
“You’re a great guy”, Eggsy says, and means every word. “And I enjoyed every second we spent together, or rather, I know that it would have been a lot worse if you hadn’t been there. But I love Harry.”

He watches Elliot’s face fall, and it hurts, because he’s the reason for it and because he never ever wanted to hurt the other. But it’s for the best, he tells himself.  
“We haven’t been too good together lately, but we’re getting there, and I know that- well. I would love to stay friends, I really would. Because you’re a great friend. And I hope that you’ll find someone who will be better for you than me.”  
He tries to reach out and put a hand on Elliot’s shoulder, but the other jerks away, no tears in his eyes, but that doesn’t make him look any less heartbroken.  
“Do you want me to leave?”, Eggsy asks, although he’d rather stay, he’d rather try and comfort Elliot, and the other nods jerkily, bites his lips.

“Okay.” Eggsy gets up, takes his mug with him. “If you need anything, Elliot, just tell me. I mean it, I’d like to help. I’d like to stay friends.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and sees Elliot when he leaves HQ, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen; Eggsy’s heart aches for him.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and wakes up, drenched in sweat and heart beating wildly, scared of everything and nothing at all.  
“Eggsy, Eggsy, darling, you’re safe, everything is going to be alright…” The voice is soft with sleep, but familiar, gentle, and it takes Eggsy far too long to recognise Harry is speaking, the other’s face in the cold light of morning trickling through the gaps between the curtains.

They haven’t touched as much as they used to in the last weeks, neither of them sure how much physical affection would be wanted, how much would be considered too much, but now Eggsy latches onto the other, clinging to him like Harry is the only thing keeping the nightmares at bay.  
And Harry doesn’t seem to mind, shifts closer willingly, wraps his arms around Eggsy’s waist.  
“Nightmares again?”, he asks, and sounds more awake, but just as gentle, just as understanding; Eggsy nods against his chest and Harry adds, “Want to tell me about them?”

Speaking about Anshi is still the hardest thing in the world, even if it used to be even worse, but Eggsy nods again, slowly, as if he couldn’t believe that he agreed to tell Harry anyway.  
He spends a few more moments just soaking up the other’s warmth before he manages to push back, look at Harry with determination in his eyes. Things have gotten better since he started talking to Harry, for both of them, and he doesn’t want to risk that.  
“Don’t remember much, which is dumb as fuck because it’s always the same three or four dreams, but when I wake up, they just stay for a few minutes an’ then they’re gone, y’know?”

He sighs, and Harry puts a hand on his hip, squeezes it, but doesn’t say a word; Eggsy is glad for it. “It’s… she’s callin’ me, trying to get me to help her, but there’s flames everywhere, all around us, and although I’m tryin’, I can’t get to her. And so I just watch her burn, slowly, still crying and begging me to come and help her… As soon as she stops, I start to burn instead. And that is when I usually wake up.”  
It’s strange how something so terrible can sound so tame when he says it out-loud, but it does, it sounds like something out of a bad soap, and somehow it takes the memory its horror, somehow Eggsy is glad for it.  
Almost as glad as he is for Harry’s hands on him, not quite as glad as for the fact that Harry doesn’t tell him it’s not his fault, instead says, “It’ll get easier, you know? Give it time, Eggsy, let yourself heal.”

It sounds like something Harry has told himself a hundred of times and that is what gets Eggsy, what makes him believe it, because if Harry could beat this, then he has to at least try.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and wakes up to an empty bed, but with the birds singing and for the first time in months, there is a little note on the pillow next to him.  
_Good morning_ , it says, _I hope the nightmares let you sleep a little longer than work me. Take your time, I’ll see you at the office later. Love, H_

It's not much, not even especially touching, but it makes Eggsy smile, because he got so close to losing this and has somehow got it back.

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and Roxy is thirty-three, says, “I’m going to have a baby.”  
She has just come back from the bar, a mojito in each hand, sits down while Eggsy looks at her with wide eyes. “What?”  
“I’m going to have a baby”, Roxy repeats, slides one of the glasses over to Eggsy, who takes a sip immediately, groaning at the taste in pleasure. “I’m not pregnant, not yet, but I’m going to have a baby and I am going to have it soon.”  
“Does Haz know that?”, Eggsy asks, and Roxy drinks, then shakes her head.  
“Not yet. I’ll have to tell him at some point I guess, but I wanted you to be the first one to know.”

“Thanks.” Eggsy smiles, lets himself feel a bit more affectionate than usual for the girl who easily has become his best friend, his confidante, over the past years, who he couldn’t imagine life without anymore. “But what brought on the change? Last time I checked, you still weren’t sure what you wanted.”  
“I almost died”, Roxy states bluntly; she might be exaggerating a little bit, but not too much, she got shot through the shoulder during that mission, through the thigh, stabbed in the stomach, the fingers of her left hand got crushed by someone’s foot. “And I realised that I don’t have time forever. There’s always going to be things I can’t control – maybe Harry and I are going to stay together, maybe we are going to split up, maybe I can get pregnant soon, maybe I am going to die tomorrow, maybe I’ll die with eighty, surrounded by my loved ones. But the point is that I don’t know, and I shouldn’t let that stop me, should I?”

Everything she says makes sense, but Eggsy didn’t expect anything else, just smiles, holds up his glass for a toast.  
“To kids, then”, he suggests, and Roxy’s lips curl into a relieved, happy, breath-taking smile, then she clinks her glass against Eggsy’s.  
“To kids.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-two and Harry is fifty-eight; he might be awake, might be asleep, Eggsy doesn’t know and doesn’t want to either. Because Harry looks peaceful like this, eyes closed and wrinkles smoothed and Eggsy’s heart _aches_ because he loves him so much, because he hurt Harry in a way he never thought he could, because he’d do anything to take it back.  
The covers around them are too hot and yet Eggsy doesn’t push them back, just scoots a little bit closer, lets his gaze drop from Harry’s face to his neck, his chest.

“I love you”, he mutters and his voice sounds hoarse even to his own ears, as if he hadn’t used it for a century. This shouldn’t be hard to say and yet it is, so Eggsy keeps his eyes away from Harry’s face; he doesn’t want to know if the other man wakes. “Sometimes when I look at you, everything just- it falls away, somehow, and there’s just you an’ it’s enough. It’s all I ever wanted, _you_ are all I ever wanted and I just can’t believe I almost ruined all of it.”  
There are tears prickling in Eggsy’s eyes, making them sting, out of pain and relief and shame, but he blinks them away, ignores them. “I never wanted to. Never, if you believe anythin’ I say, believe this. When I saw you down there, with the suitcases and all that, when you told me to go, it was like my heart had stopped. Like the one worst thing in the world had happened, the one that made everything else pale in comparison, because-“

It's hard to find the words, because this is something Eggsy doesn’t know if there are words for, that feeling of _right_ and _safe_ and _warm_ and _love_ that has become associated with Harry, that all-encompassing affection, so in the end, he uses those he knows, even if he knows that they don’t quite fit, only get close to it.  
“Because you’re it for me, Harry Hart. Like in the movies, in the songs, you’re all of those lovers to me. You’re Mr. Higgins and I’ll be your Eliza as long as you’ll have me.”

 

Eggsy turns thirty-three and Harry is fifty-eight. They don’t celebrate, just like they never do, but for the first time since that night, they sleep together, make love.  
It’s not like it used to be, not that easy and not that familiar anymore, but it’s good anyway, makes Eggsy’s toes curl and his eyes flutter shut when Harry pushes into him, breathing heavily against his neck. He has missed this, more than he ever thought, to the point where there are tears in his eyes, spilling over when Harry kisses his lips, his cheeks, his throat.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and Harry is fifty-eight, winds his limbs around him, pulls Eggsy close enough he can almost taste the sweat on the other’s skin.  
“I wanted to do this for a long time”, Harry mutters, drags his lips over the side of Eggsy’s neck, making him shiver. “You don’t even know.”  
The words make his heart flutter, his skin flush, and Eggsy touches his fingers to the side of Harry’s neck, brushes them down over his shoulder. “Me too. Missed this. Missed you…missed how we used to be.”

For a second, he isn’t sure if he’s said the wrong thing altogether, but then Harry nuzzles his neck, leaves a few, open-mouthed kisses on his skin. “As did I, my heart.”  
The term of endearment makes Eggsy freeze for a second, his heart beating hard and fast all of a sudden. “You haven’t called me that since…y’know.”  
“I haven’t?”

Harry seems surprised, even pulls back a little so he can look Eggsy in the eye again, his lips pink and slightly swollen from the kisses they shared before. The other’s brow is furrowed, and Eggsy knows that he is smiling, beaming even.  
“You didn’t. I thought maybe you wouldn’t anymore.”  
There’s a slight pause, and Harry’s expression softens, just before he leans in and presses a kiss to Eggsy’s lips. “Oh Eggsy…”  
His voice is soft and sounds like a promise and Eggsy drinks it in, loves it more than he maybe should. “I never stopped loving you”, he continues, brushes his fingertips over Eggsy’s side, slowly, from his ribs to his hip. “I’m not sure if that is what you thought, but I never did. Not for a second.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and drives through a village just behind the border of Myanmar and almost crashes the car when he, for a moment, thinks he saw Anshi looking at him from behind one of the windows.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and Harry is fifty-eight, presses a kiss to his temple, and Eggsy marvels at how easy this has become again, how familiar.  
He’s draped across Harry’s chest, fingertips brushing across the other man’s collarbone and over his shoulder, down his arm until they reach black the lines of Harry’s tattoo, something that still surprises him every time he sets eyes on it. Although it’s terribly done, ragged and uneven, he likes it, the thought that his prim, proper Harry used to be just as wild as Eggsy was.

It’s just half an idea, but the words are out of his mouth before he can think about them again.  
“Maybe I should get one o’ those as well.”  
“A shitty circle A tattoo?”  
Seeing that Eggsy did his best to suck Harry’s brain out through his cock just minutes ago, the other sounds far too composed, far too calm, amused, brushing his fingers through Eggsy’s hair.  
“Exactly.” Eggsy rolls his eyes, even if Harry won’t be able to see, traces the other’s tattoo. “No, a tattoo.”  
“If you’ll get my name tattooed, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at you without laughing again”, Harry warns, his tone teasing and light.

“Oh sure, because I totally want to get ya name tattooed. Ya vain prick.” Eggsy nips at the other’s chest as punishment, but Harry just hums, cards his fingers through Eggsy’s hair again, once, twice, thrice; that’s as long as it takes for Eggsy to break. “Okay, okay, I kinda want to get your name tattooed.”  
“You _absolute sap_ ”, Harry replies and Eggsy bites him again, a little harder this time, making Harry yelp. “Al _right_. I’d get your name too.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-one and Harry is fifty-seven, squints down at the newspaper, although all the lights are on. With his feet still resting on the other’s lap, Eggsy sits up, brushes his fingertips over Harry’s cheek, up to his temple.  
“Harry, love”, he starts, tries to think of a way how to say this without offending Harry’s vanity, which is harder than it should be sometimes. Without making him think of things which Eggsy would very much like to forget ever happened. “Maybe ya should go and get ya eyes checked?”

“What?” Harry looks up, doesn’t look offended, even if there is a shadow of that old doubt that Eggsy knows so well, that old insecurity. By now, he has stopped trying to convince Harry that it is futile, that Eggsy is well aware of his age and still doesn’t care, but that hardly makes it any better. “For reading glasses, you mean? I can assure you, my heart, I’m not that old.”  
He says it with a raised eyebrow and incredulity tinting his tone, as if he had never even considered it before. Knowing Harry, he might not have.  
“That’s not what I meant. I mean, the old part, I did mean the thing with the glasses. It's just that ya seem to have trouble reading sometimes and they could help with that. There’s no shame in it.”  
“Of course there isn’t.” Harry turns back to his book, his voice allowing no disagreement. “Doesn’t mean I need them.”  
Eggsy lets his hand linger for a few more moments, then pulls it away, rolling his eyes. “Sure thing, babe. Whatever ya say.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and Harry is fifty-eight, comes home with a new pair of glasses; Eggsy makes sure to kiss him deeply, sweetly, putting his hands in Harry’s hair.  
“Hello handsome”, he greets as soon as they have parted again, and means it – the glasses look vaguely like the Kingsman standard version, but with a thicker frame, the edges rounded. “You look like a college professor. The very sexy kind, of course.”  
“Of course.” The sarcasm is impossible to overhear, but Eggsy doesn’t mind it, is just glad that Harry didn’t react like he feared he would, by going all soft and quiet, defeated, almost. “You’re just feeling smug because you were right.”

It makes Eggsy grin, then he shrugs, “Not just, but it does play into it, old man.”  
And that is all it takes for Harry’s eyes to go dark, bordering on dangerous, for him to pull Eggsy closer again until they are pressed flush against each other. “I’ll show you old.”  
Which is just what Eggsy wanted to hear.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and Harry takes him apart with his mouth and hands and cock until he’s nothing more than a gasping wreck. It feels like heaven.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and Harry turns fifty-nine, without a word, without any kind of acknowledgement. And after so much time, that is okay.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and finds Harry, who is fifty-nine, on the sofa when he gets up in the morning, wanting to be at HQ sooner than usual to complete the paperwork Merlin won’t shut up about. The other must have fallen asleep while still reading whatever files he has brought home – they are scattered all over the floor, some of them still on Harry’s lap.  
Although he knows that the older man will have a horrible crick in his neck all day, Eggsy can’t help but smile, ignore the need for coffee for a moment in favour of getting a blanket from the bedroom and taking it downstairs.

“There ya go”, he murmurs, puts the blanket over Harry to make sure he’s warm and safe, but can’t resist kissing his cheek. It’s hardly a touch, but Harry’s skin is so warm, his scent so familiar; it’s still dark outside and surely it wouldn’t hurt to curl up next to the love of his life for another few minutes, just enjoying Harry’s presence.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and wakes up with his back aching and Harry’s arm slung around him, keeping him warm.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three, says, “An’ then Albert got us another round of those Jägerbombs and I swear, Roxy almost- are ya even listening, Harry?”  
They are having dinner at home for the first time in almost a week and Harry shakes his head with an apologetic smile, answers, “No, I didn’t. Sorry.”  
“The story wasn’t that boring, was it?”  
“Not at all. It’s just… I don’t know if you noticed, but you sound like yourself again. Not always, but most of the time, and I just love hearing that.”

“I do?” Eggsy furrows his brow, trying to remember, and maybe Harry is right – it’s been quite some time since he last made a conscious effort to make his lips and tongue pronounce everything crisp and proper, just like Harry’s do. “Oh. I never realised that.”  
“That’s even better, I think”, Harry answers and lays his hand on the table with the palm facing upwards, waiting until Eggsy takes it. “You’re getting better.”  
And Eggsy takes a moment to think – it’s been more than a week since he last been woken up by a nightmare, even longer since he last had the urge to just walk away, not talk to anyone for days – and maybe Harry is right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I hope that soothed all the pain I caused with the last chapter, I did try ♥
> 
> And I'd like to just say thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story until now, who comments and leaves kudos and asks me questions; it means so, so much to me.  
> This was meant to be a short one shot, before it got completely out of hand, but I could never have continued with it for so long without having all of you, telling me that I wasn't the only one who enjoyed this story, that it touched someone else as well. It's the greatest thing that could have happened, and sometimes, when I'm losing my motivation, because something just won't work the way I want it to, I reread the comments all of you left on the story, and it just gets so much easier.  
> So thank you, all of you, for making me a much happier person, and for giving this story a chance to become what it is now.  
> Merry Christmas ♥


	12. Chapter 12

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and for the first time in what feels like forever, there is snow covering the ground when he looks outside of their bedroom window. It’s powdery and white, making the streets glisten and he can’t help but remember just how excited he used to be about something so little when he was still a boy.  
He doesn’t know if it’s less often nowadays, but it seems like it; in fact, it feels like something so rare that, although Harry doesn’t have to be at HQ until midday, Eggsy wakes him.

It’s one of his favourite things, to watch Harry wake up in the morning, his eyes fluttering open, his expression going from relaxed to controlled within a second, only to relax again when Harry notices he is at home, he is safe.  
“Mornin’, luv”, he mutters, once he can be certain that Harry is awake enough to understand, presses a kiss to the other’s temple. “It’s snowing outside.”  
“Is it?”  
“Yeah.” Eggsy can’t help but smile; the older Harry gets, the less excited he is about getting up in the morning, and Eggsy thinks it’s adorable. “Wanna take a look?”  
“Not really.”

Harry closes his eyes again, but Eggsy refuses to be turned down so easily, just kisses Harry’s cheek, nuzzles his jaw. “We could go out and build a snowman. Like in that old animation movie that you probably didn’t watch but Daisy loved.”  
“There is no force in this world or the next that could make me go outside and build a snowman in the middle of the night.”  
The answer is expected, makes Eggsy grin and nip at the skin of Harry’s jaw, just lightly. “We could also go down and I blow ya on the sofa, while ya admire the snow and my sublime cock sucking skills.”

There isn’t a reaction for a few seconds, then Harry’s eyes open again, slowly, until he can look at Eggsy, his expression still decidedly unimpressed. “Sometimes, you make it so hard not to hate you.”  
“I’ll meet ya downstairs.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and Harry is fifty-nine, his lips quirking up into a smile when he reads the name of the restaurant Eggsy has taken him to. _Orsini_.  
“Really?”, he asks, and Eggsy just shrugs, answers, “Well, it seemed appropriate, I guess? Like, we should come here more often.”  
Harry hums his agreement, ushers Eggsy inside, because it is cold and he can probably see how Eggsy is shivering under his far too light jacket. Not that Eggsy would ever admit that, not when Harry told him to wear something warmer and he ignored the older man, told him to stop mother-henning so much. “We definitely could, if you want that. It's not far from home after all, and not that far away from the shop either…”

“Forget about the shop, ya workaholic”, Eggsy answers, even if his voice sounds fond, always does. He takes Harry’s hand in his, tells the waitress approaching them his name, follows her to their table without letting go once.  
“Wanted to get the exact same table as last time, but I couldn’t remember which one it was anymore.”  
“That one over there.” Harry gestures over to one of the tables, which looks just like the rest, not familiar at all.  
“You remember that? Still?”  
“No.” Harry shoots him a grin that looks far too young, too immature and yet so fitting on his face, takes the menu the waitress placed in front of them. “I have no idea, to be honest. But it’s been, what… five years? So I’m not even surprised.”

“Rude.” Eggsy is laughing anyway, skimming over the different courses, some of the dishes familiar, some anything but. “Aren’t ya supposed to, like, remember everythin’ about when ya fell for ya one true love?”  
“My one true love?” One of Harry’s eyebrows is raised and he sounds amused; Eggsy can feel his cheeks grow hot, a blush surely staining them pink, but he doesn’t take it back.  
“Yeah, exactly.”  
There are a few moments that pass in silence, then Harry says, “Well, then it’s good that I can safely say that I fell in love with you at a completely different point in time, isn’t it?”

 

Eggsy is thirty-three, and it’s just half an hour later when he thinks of something.  
“Wait”, he interrupts Harry, who is in the middle of telling some story about work, twirling spaghetti around his fork. “How _did_ you fall in love with me?”  
Harry stops, nonplussed for a second, before raising an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and it becomes some kind of game, asking Harry about how he fell in love with him, which pushed him over the edge, when he realised it. The other never answers, just smiles secretively, tells Eggsy not to worry his pretty little head.  
What done is done, isn’t it?

A few times, Eggsy considers the possibility that Harry just doesn’t know anymore, but that doesn’t make much sense, not when Harry was always so clear on everything ever, knows everything.  
So instead of giving in, he grows more determined to find out, just like he wants to find out all the rest there is to know about Harry.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and pulls out a photo album from one of the book shelves when he’s looking for a cooking book to find out how to make panna cotta. It’s bound in brown leather and Eggsy forgets all about the panna cotta, takes it instead and carries it downstairs with him, where Harry is standing in the kitchen, apron tied around his waist.  
“Babe, what’s this?”, he asks and sets the album down on the table. Harry turns around, a knife still in his hand, comes closer and Eggsy can pinpoint the exact moment when he recognises the photo album, his eyes brightening, his lips curling up into a smile.  
“Oh, this.” Harry sets the knife down gingerly, with the precision of someone who could easily kill someone with it too, then leans forward to look more closely, opens the album to reveal a handful of faded photographs, carelessly stuck to the pages.

It takes a moment until Eggsy realises what he is looking at – it’s a picture of a younger Merlin, leaning against a pillar with his shirt untucked, a pretty blonde girl sitting at his feet.  
“I took that during training. All of them, actually. The girl over there, she was called Cornelia. From Germany, I think. Merlin had a horrible crush on her for a few weeks, before she got kicked out. Me and Elfie, we thought that it was hilarious.”  
“Merlin and a crush?” Eggsy can’t help but ask, taking a closer look. “Seriously?”  
“It was a wonderful thing to watch.” Harry turns the page, and Eggsy makes a delighted sound at the back of his throat, because it’s not Merlin on the next picture, but Harry with his hair in soft curls and a mischievous smirk on his lips. He’s lounging on one of the couches Eggsy has seen in the manor, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, a stack of papers resting on his lap.

“Well, you were one handsome fucker, weren’t you?”, Eggsy teases and Harry laughs, turns to him.  
“At least Cornelia seemed to think so – while Merlin was lusting after her, she was lusting after me.”  
“What a heartbreaker.” Eggsy steals a kiss and turns the page, skimming over a few pictures of the manor, the training grounds. “You all look so happy. Different than it was during my training.”  
“We were, actually.” Harry sounds thoughtful, and brushes his fingertips over one of the pictures, as if he was trying to get a little closer to those memories. “We didn’t all get along, of course, but most of us did. But it was a rare occurrence, I have never seen any group of recruits afterwards which didn’t hate each other’s’ guts.”  
“Ya got lucky then, didn’t you?”, Eggsy asks, accent slipping like it has been doing occasionally during the last few weeks. “That must’ve been nice.”

“It was.” Harry turns the page again, looks at next batch of pictures – some of him and Merlin together, two of a very young Elfie. “Those months were some of the best in my life.”  
“That good?”  
“Yes.” One last look, then Harry closes the photo album, turns to Eggsy. “Thank you for finding this. I haven’t thought about that time for years.”  
He sounds almost a little melancholic and for a second, Eggsy thinks that maybe, it wasn’t that good idea, but then he smiles, pulls Eggsy close, against his chest. His heart is beating steadily and he smells like always, like detergent and citrus and bergamot and like home, and Eggsy lets his eyes drift shut.  
“But, you know”, Harry adds, almost as an afterthought, “This is even better.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and there’s a fairly familiar knock on his door, one he hasn’t heard in weeks, and the last time on solely business, something about a new kind of gun Merlin wanted him to test.  
Elliot walks into the room without waiting for an answer, and there is a smile on his lips, even if a tentative, hesistant one, one that doesn’t look like him at all, and Eggsy smiles back without any hesitation anyway.  
“Elliot! Haven’t seen ya around for ages”, he greets, hoping that the other knows that he doesn’t hold anything that happens against him, that he understands why he disappeared for all this time. In fact, he understands it far too well; sometimes space is just what you need. “What brings ya here?”  
“The greatest thing ever”, Elyan says, excitement obvious, and Eggsy recognises the tone of his voice; it’s the same thing he used when he was telling Eggsy about the last kind of fountain pen they developed (“It’s a laser, an actual laser! You could cut through a fucking steel door with it!”). “Prepare yourself. _Holographs_.”

“What. You’re fuckin’ kidding me.” It isn’t often that Eggsy is still surprised, but he definitely is now, impressed, even. “That’s some Star Wars kinda shit.”  
“It is.” Elyan is grinning madly, so very clearly excited for this, and Eggsy finds that he has missed the other, even if he and Harry have been so caught up with each other those last months, trying to fix what they had broken. “But don’t tell Merlin that I’ve told you because he’ll probably skin me alive. It’s all very hush hush right now, y’know? But there’s gonna be wristwatches that can play a holograph soon, for navigation during missions and shit. And it’s gonna be _awesome_.”  
“Fuck yeah. But I’ll do my best not to spoil the surprise for everyone else, promise.”

“Thanks.”  
Eggsy is still smiling and Elyan ducks his head slightly, stays silent for a moment, then adds, “Should probably head back, I told Morgana that I would get coffee, not go and reveal all our secrets.”  
“Alright then.”  
Elyan turns around, wants to leave, and Eggsy calls after him, “Don’t be a stranger, kay?”  
When the other looks back, there’s a smile on his lips, the first one that looks like the ones Eggsy is used to.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and watches Harry set down his glass of wine. It's still half full, even if Eggsy has no idea how the other managed that – he has had a little over two glasses by now, can feel the effects of them.  
They’re in the living room, because apparently even mass murderers and violent cults take breaks now and then, the roast in the oven, some old record of Harry’s playing. It’s more domestic than anything Eggsy ever thought he’d experience and he loves it, can’t help but smile softly every now and then, in between words or sips of wine.

“-and I know that you and Tristan can’t stand each other, but he did do well on his last mission. Taking down these sharpshooters with a pen and a shoestring alone, that’s rather impressive-“, Harry says conversationally, takes a sip of his wine, and Eggsy can’t tear his gaze away from the red tint of the other’s lips, left there by the wine they are both drinking. He doesn’t know if it’s because he wants Harry to stop talking about Tristan on an evening off, or something else, but suddenly he can’t think of anything but kissing the red off the other’s lips.

“-and he didn’t even have to blow up the building”, Harry continues, clearly meaning to convey a message Eggsy will absolutely ignore; instead he bends over and presses their lips together, the glass of wine caught between their chests.  
Harry lets out a surprised little gasp, but doesn’t pull away, just kisses back after a second. A chuckle escapes him when Eggsy starts to lick at his lips, tasting wine; it makes Eggsy laugh as well, the ticklish sensation and the sound of Harry’s laughter.

They break apart, both still grinning and Harry puts the hand not holding onto his glass onto Eggsy’s shoulder, sliding it closer to his neck until he can touch skin.  
“If this is going to happen every time I mention Tristan, I should do that more often”, he remarks, raising an eyebrow.  
“Oi! ‘S nothing to do with Tristan. Well. Hardly anything.”  
“I knew it.” Harry looks smug, takes another drink from his glass, his tongue darting out teasingly to lick the rest of the wine away. “And I’d absolutely scold you if Tristan wasn’t really a bit of tosspot.”  
“You’re admitting that although you’re his superior?”  
“I’m admitting it because I am. I can make sure you won’t have to go on any missions with him but I can’t just tell him not to come to his briefings. Unfortunately.”

For a moment, Eggsy isn’t certain what it is that makes him stop in his tracks, then he asks rather incredulously. “You’re makin’ sure that I don’t get set up with Tristan?”  
“Of course”, Harry states, matter of fact, “Why else do you think that you’re almost always paired up with Roxy or Albert? Of course it’s because you work well together, but it’s also because I know you’re always a lot happier when it’s them. And not Tristan.”  
“You’re abusing ya power to make me happy?”, Eggsy asks, surprised at how touched he is by the thought. Harry was always rather strict when it came to favouritism when they first got together, and yet he is admitting to it now.

The words put a smile on Harry’s face, a soft, gentle one, and then answers, “I’d do a lot more to make you happy, my heart.”  
And Eggsy believes him.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and notices for the first time that Harry, who is fifty-nine, pauses for a second before making his way down the stairs.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and Daisy is eleven years old, rings their doorbell with a backpack slung carelessly around her shoulders, bright pink earplugs in her ears and JB’s leash in one hand. She’s grown up, his little flower, still likes Disney princesses (even if they come from movies that are too new for Eggsy to get properly excited about) but also pop music and short skirts, studded belts.  
“Hello, flower”, he still greets her like he always does, leans down to hug her close to his chest. She goes willingly, and Eggsy hates to think of the inevitable day when she won’t anymore, not for a few years. “Got here safely?”

“Yeah.” Daisy grins up at him, her left front tooth chipped and her cheeks dimpled, and Eggsy ushers her inside, closes the door behind them. “I mean, Uncle Harry did send a cab, nothing I could’ve done not to be safe, yeah?  
Eggsy tssks, can’t help it, even if there is a smile on his lips. “Ya know how much he hates it when ya call him that, don’t ya?”  
“Totally. That’s why I keep doin’ it.”  
“Cheeky little shit.”

Daisy just shoots him another grin, toes off her shoes and leaves them carelessly in the middle of the hallway and Eggsy realises how old he is getting when he feels the urge to pick them up, put them where they should be. He ignores it, of course.  
“Want some dinner?”, he asks instead, because he knows that Daisy can’t have had anything at home; it’s too early for that. “Harry’s gonna be home late, so we don’t have to wait up for him.”  
“Aw. Depends, are we gonna order, are ya gonna cook or are there leftovers from what Uncle Harry cooked?”

This time, Eggsy doesn’t even bother to correct Daisy, instead ruffles her hair – which makes her squeak, because she is old enough to be bothered by having it messed up. “I’ll have ya know that my cookin’ is absolutely adequate.”  
“Okay, yeah”, Daisy admits, but the cheeky little grin doesn’t vanish. “Better than mum’s, definitely. But Uncle Harry’s… oh fuck, that’s just insanely good.”  
“It is. But watch ya language, Dais”, Eggsy answers without thinking, only realises what he just said a second later. “Oh shit, I sound like our mum.”  
Daisy just cackles.

 

Eggsy is thirty-three and Harry is fifty-nine, finds them on the sofa three hours later, the TV playing and several bowls and Tupperware containers strewn around them, because there were leftovers in the fridge after all and Daisy insisted on having every single one of them.  
“Hello”, he greets, kisses Eggsy’s cheek and smiles at Daisy, who waves back. “Seems you two had quite the night.”  
“We definitely did”, Eggsy agrees, unsure if he should try to move, although he has had so much roasted beef and mashed potatoes he feels like he is weighing a ton. “How was your night?”  
“Tedious.”

Harry doesn’t elaborate any further, can’t, because Daisy thinks they make suits for a living after all, but Eggsy knows he will hear everything about it later.  
“Too many posh wankers wanting new posh suits, Uncle Harry?”, Daisy quips good-naturedly, and Harry nods, doesn’t correct her, which surprises Eggsy.  
“Exactly, _Miss_ Daisy.”  
“Oi!”

 

Eggsy turns thirty-four in Sydney, in between of sneaking off to the beach and being chased by a half-mad weapons dealer. Even if he was still celebrating his birthday, he wouldn’t have time to do it this year, and really, Eggsy almost forgets all about it, just remembers it when he finds a text on his phone once the target is tied up and delivered to the local authorities.  
_I love you_ , that’s what it says, nothing more, nothing less, but it’s more than enough.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four, says, “Wait, I know it now. Ya fell in love with me when ya got shot in 2019 and I came to the medical wing and started shouting at ya. ‘Cause I was so upset at ya almost dyin’ again and ya were incredibly touched by that.”  
Harry looks up from his book, one eyebrow raised and making him look utterly unimpressed. “Really, Eggsy, if that is the best you can come up with, maybe you should stop trying.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry is fifty-nine, undresses carefully, which is far too slow for Eggsy’s tastes. He saunters over, or at least tries to, which is a lot harder than he thought when there is a bright pink butt plug pressing against his prostate with every step he takes.  
Still, he reaches Harry, puts his hands on the other’s chest, feeling warm skin and thick scars. “C’mon, how about ya hurry up a bit?”  
“I could, I suppose”, Harry answers with a raised eyebrow and a bit of a smile in his voice, on his lips. “But I don’t know why I should. After all, we both don’t have to be at work tomorrow.”

Of course, Eggsy could answer, but he chooses not to, instead he takes one of Harry’s hands, guides it down his back, slides it past the hem of his pants. He spreads his legs a bit more and Harry gets the hint, dips two fingers in between Eggsy’s cheeks, sucking in a breath when he touches the flared part of the plugs.  
“Is that-?”, he asks, and oh, this was worth everything, the hitch in Harry’s breath, the way his heart is beating faster now against Eggsy’s palm.  
He nods, and Harry’s head drops against his shoulder, as if all strength had left him. “You’ll be the death of me, I swear.”

With a breathless little chuckle, Eggsy pushes back against the light touch against the plug, his rim stretched around it, feeling tiny sparks of pleasures travel up his spine. “I definitely won’t be…. Or actually, I might, considering the plans I’ve got for tonight…”  
“Oh”, Harry mutters out softly, but obviously intrigued, looks up at Eggsy with dark eyes, his pupils widened already. “Which plans would those be?”  
“Well, I thought that since it took me fifteen minutes to get this into me, I definitely want to make most o’ it.” Eggsy grins, presses their lips together for a second, then continues, “So I thought I could fuck ya first, with it still inside, and then we could take a lil’ nap so ya can fuck me later too. Fill me up with ya come, make me scream, y’know? Then plug me up again, so ya can fuck me again, right after wakin’ up. Sounds good?”  
“Sounds perfect.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry is fifty-nine and was absolutely right. It was perfect.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Elyan comes to visit him in his office, something the other has started to do a little more often again, popping by with new information about the holograph development, some interesting gossip, or just to have a cup of tea.  
It doesn’t feel like it used to, but Eggsy thinks it’s better that way; back then, neither of them was even close to alright, to healthy, and now it seems that they are at least healing.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and walks into Harry’s office with a hint of nervousness clinging to his mind for the first time in years. It was an afterthought, really, after Elyan left his office with an empty cup of tea and biscuit crumbs all over his jumper; he never told Harry that they are still, or rather, are again on friendly terms.  
And although Harry believes him that there was never anything going on between them, Eggsy would still rather prevent any possible misunderstandings from happening. As horrible as that time was, he at least has learnt a little bit from it.

So he knocks at his lover’s door, waits for Harry to call him in, hands clasped at his front and ears burning hotly.  
“’Lo”, he greets and Harry looks surprised to see him, but still smiles.  
“Eggsy. I didn’t expect you. Come on, sit down.” Harry is all pleasantness, all affection, and right now, that only serves to make Eggsy feel worse, feel guilty for… well, what for? He hasn’t done anything wrong, Eggsy reminds himself, he hasn’t done anything at all. “Is there anything you need?”

“Yeah, actually”, Eggsy answers, takes a seat just like Harry has told him to. “There’s – I mean, I hope ya won’t mind, I just wanted to tell ya in case ya do. Me and Elyan, we’ve been getting closer again. Like, not in that way, of course, just like friends. Y’know?”  
It's clear that Harry does know, because he stills for a second, his gaze on Eggsy’s face but his expression carefully blank, the way Eggsy hates the most. There’s a moment in which Eggsy doesn’t know how Harry will react, but then the other’s lips curl up in a smile.  
“That’s good, Eggsy. I never intended that… episode to ruin the friendship between you. I’m glad that the both of you managed to get past that.”

“So ya not jealous?”  
The question makes Harry pause again, folding his hands on the table. “I might be, a little bit, but that shouldn’t stop you. And it’s not because I don’t trust you, it’s just an old man’s incredulity that he managed to secure someone’s affections who could have anyone at all.”  
The relief Eggsy feels over Harry not being mad is forgotten easily, because sometimes, Harry gets like this, gets soft and gentle and self-depreciating, and Eggsy _hates_ it.  
“Bullshit”, he replies, gets up and circles the desk, spins Harry’s chair around so he can plop down on his lap. “All of that, it’s bullshit. I love ya and there is no reason to be _incredulous_ or some shite, because I do, an’ that won’t change.”

A slow smile spreads across Harry’s face, but Eggsy doesn’t wait to see it bloom, instead kisses the beginnings off the other’s lips.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry is fifty-nine, sends him on a mission to Japan. It’s a short one, just a few men and women who need to be told that, yes, someone did notice all the money that went missing, and yes, someone will notice too when said money should turn up on certain bank accounts, and although the jetlag prevents him from sleeping more than ten hours in the whole three days he is there, Eggsy is glad for it.  
Sometimes, it’s just good to get out of the normal routine, away from the paperwork and the strict training routine, even if it’s hard to imagine when he lies in bed with Harry in the morning, doesn’t want to get up ever again.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and remembers another reason why it’s good to be away from home sometimes: the coming-home sex is amazing.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four, bursts into Harry’s office.  
“I know it now!”, he exclaims, and the other slowly raises his head, something between unimpressed and amused.  
“I’m guessing it’s about the falling in love thing again?”, he asks, and Eggsy nod, plops down onto the chair in front of Harry. “Well, let’s hear it then.”  
“It was that dinner ya took me to for my twenty-eighth birthday. The first time we were at Orsini and ya gave me my watch and told me about the twins ya used to shag. Because… I dunno, it was one of the best evenings I had _ever_ and I still remember how ya kept smilin’.”

Harry had smiled a lot that night, the same smile he smiles right now, but he shakes his head and Eggsy can’t help but feel disappointed.  
“I was already very much in love with you at that point”, Harry responds, and the words cheer Eggsy up a little again. “Keep trying.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry is fifty-nine, gets up with a little groan from where he has been kneeling, trying for the umpteenth time to sort through his collection of records. By now, Eggsy has lost his hope that the other will ever be able to finish what he is trying to do.  
“Ya alright?”, he asks from the couch, lowering his tablet for a second.  
“Oh yes”, Harry answers with a quirk of his lips. “Just my damned knee. I don’t know if I ever told you about that mission in ’83 I had in Florence… broke my kneecap and it keeps acting up from time to time. Nothing to worry about, though.”

“If ya say so”, Eggsy answers, cranes his head to ask for a kiss when Harry comes over, drops down next to him. He gets it, short and sweet and perfect, but still stores the information away for later. “Now, I thought I could cook today, try that moussaka recipe Elfie sent me…”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry is fifty-nine, kisses him one last time before Eggsy rings the doorbell. He isn’t sure who the other is trying to reassure – himself or Eggsy – but he has the feeling that they both need it.  
It’s the 25th of December and after Eggsy had begged and pleaded, his mum had agreed to invite not only Eggsy to their traditional Christmas dinner, but to allow Harry to come along. Harry had never complained those last years about Eggsy leaving to have dinner with the family he had before coming home to Harry, but it had always felt wrong anyway, leaving the man he loved behind.

So now they are waiting in front of the house that used to belong to Eggsy, fingers intertwined because Eggsy refuses to let go of Harry’s hand just because his mum might disagree. He has made his choice, made sure that Michelle would know of it, and he won’t pretend otherwise.  
And it feels good, something to ground him, them, something to show they belong together.

There are footsteps approaching and a second later, Daisy rips the door open. She’s in her best clothes, a wine red velvet dress and her hair done up in a mess of curls, even a hint of mascara tinting her eyelashes – something she’s only allowed to do when Michelle has given her express permission.  
“Finally!”, she greets them, making Eggsy laugh; they are a little late, but that is something he hardly even notices anymore, not with Harry. “Mum was goin’ crazy already.”  
“That was all my fault, I’m sorry”, Harry replies easily, with a little smile and a twinkle in his eye.

“Ya forgiven. But just ‘cause that PlayStation ya and Eggsy gave me is fuckin’ fantastic. I didn’t even know it was out yet!”  
“One of our customers works for the company and I couldn’t pass up the chance to get you something special, could I now?”, Harry says and sounds perfectly honest even when Eggsy knows he is making shit up from thin air.  
“Totally agree”, Daisy agrees with a smile so wide it seems to almost split her face apart. “But c’mon in, so mum won’t have to start screamin’ again.”

Daisy turns around to let them in, and Eggsy turns to Harry, mutters, “Ya got someone to steal that console, didn’t ya?”  
“A gentleman never tells, Eggsy”, Harry replies, far too smug for Eggsy’s taste, and Eggsy rolls his eyes.  
“At least ya wrote my name on the card as well.”

Eggsy toes off his shoes and hangs up both their coats, feels almost proud when Daisy only mutters _gross_ under her breath when he steals another quick kiss, instead of exclaiming her distaste loudly. She’s growing up, and it breaks his heart a little too.  
“Ya nervous?”, he asks Harry quietly while Daisy leaves to help their mum with dinner, and Harry laughs softly, presses a horribly sappy kiss to the tip of Eggsy’s nose.  
“Of course I am. It’s not every day that I get to meet your mother, is it?”  
“Well, theoretically speaking, ya have met her before.”  
“I doubt that she remembers that. In fact I rather hope she doesn’t.”

“Who doesn’t remember what?”  
They break apart like in one of those movies, Eggsy feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks – this is exactly how he hoped today wouldn’t go. Still, he doesn’t step away from Harry, stays right where he is, where he should be.  
“Oh nothin’. Just work stuff. Merry Christmas, mum.”  
He gives her a smile, then gives in and hugs her, doing his best not to get away from Harry too much.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Unwin. Thank you for the invitation.”  
“…and this is Harry.”  
It sounds strange, those words uttered with his voice, but Eggsy tries not to show it, even if it feels unreal, like a dream, which could easily end as a nightmare.  
And at first, Eggsy is sure it will be, because Michelle purses her lips and Eggsy knows what she sees. The wrinkles around Harry’s eyes and not the warm brown of them, the grey of his hair and not that it’s a little bit too long because Harry called off his last two appointments at the barber because he didn’t want to leave their bed, sees the sagging skin, but not that the grooves around Harry’s mouth come from smiling mostly, less from frowning.

She sees the wrong things and for a few moments, Eggsy expects her to speak about all of them, but then Michelle sighs, takes the hand Harry is offering her.  
“I figured. Merry Christmas to ya as well.” It’s said with more warmth than Eggsy expected, almost sounds genuine, and although Eggsy knows that his mum still disapproves, it’s enough for now that she is trying.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four, filled up to the brim with turkey, roast potatoes and Brussel sprouts. Harry is sitting next to him on the sofa, occasionally driving Daisy insane by commenting on her video game, telling her to go left or right, to shoot or to use stealth, and it’s so domestic Eggsy can feel his heart swell and crack at the same time.  
During dinner, it had taken some time until they had even managed to get a conversation started that didn’t die after three or four exchanged sentences, but it ended up being a little less awkward than Eggsy had expected. Michelle had asked some questions that had led to either Eggsy blushing or sending her some sort of dirty glare, but she hadn’t been openly hostile and Eggsy counted that as a win in his books.

Afterwards, Daisy had demanded to show them all the new pretty things she got, especially the PlayStation Eggsy still can’t believe Harry stole for her. Michelle had excused herself and really, Eggsy didn’t mind it the slightest, not when it meant having this: Harry next to him, on Christmas Day, Daisy playing at their feet.

He’s in the middle of deciding if he wants a sip of brandy when his mum appears again in the doorway, a soft looking cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. She tilts her head, doesn’t have to say a word for Eggsy to know what she wants.  
With a soft sigh and a smile in Harry’s direction, Eggsy gets up, joins her in the kitchen.  
Michelle is already sitting down when he enters the room, so Eggsy does the same, folds his hands and rests his chin on them, looking at his mum questioningly. “Somethin’ ya want to talk about?”  
“Yeah, actually.” His mum looks thoughtful, like she isn’t sure if she should say this but still feels like she has to. “He loves ya. I can see that.”

It’s not at all what he expected, and for one moment, Eggsy doesn’t know what to answer, just stares. Of course his mum is right, Harry does love him, but to hear her acknowledge it is more than he could have hoped for.  
“Don’t get me wrong”, she continues, although Eggsy knows that whatever she will say will only serve to make this a little bit less beautiful, a little less pleasant. “I still wish ya were with someone else. Someone younger, who wasn’t ya boss, all that. But ya chose him and it’s ya who has to live with him… and he loves ya. And if even I can see that, then he can’t have been that much o’ a bad choice.”

It’s not perfect, but hardly anything is, that’s what Eggsy has found out over the years, so he takes it, gladly, gives his mother a smile that’s as sincere as it’s warm. “Thanks, mum. I appreciate it, I really do.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry, his beautiful, gorgeous lover, the man who even managed to charm his mother to some extent, turns sixty. It’s one of the rare occasions when Eggsy wakes up before the other, far too early to get up and yet too late to go back to sleep, so instead of doing either, he watches Harry until watching is not enough anymore, until he has to lean in and kiss him.  
It’s such a strange thought because they have been together for more than five years and yet there has never been a time when Eggsy wouldn’t have dropped anything for a kiss, a touch.

The short press of lips is enough to rouse Harry, and Eggsy can’t find it in himself to regret it at all, just tries to soothe the sting of waking up before the sun has risen with another kiss, then another.  
“Morning”, he mutters against the corner of Harry’s mouth, feels the other’s lips quirk up into a smile, Harry’s hand move until it’s settled comfortably on his side.  
“I didn’t hear any alarm go off”, Harry comments, and Eggsy doesn’t even pretend to feel guilty, just kisses Harry’s cheek, nuzzles the side of his neck.  
“’s cause there was none.”

“Depriving an old man of his sleep, I see.” There’s no heat in Harry’s voice, but Eggsy doesn’t like it anyway, that hint of self-depreciation clinging to the other’s words.  
“We can sleep when we’re dead”, he answers and feels, rather than hears, Harry hum in response. “An’ it’ll be a long time ‘til we get there.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry has been sixty for just a few hours when they sit down to have lunch in HQ, after Eggsy has relocated six different stacks of paper from the sofa. As it is so often, there is far too much take out to be shared between them, and Harry gets some soy sauce on his glasses, makes Eggsy laugh when he spills miso soup all over his tie, starts cursing like a sailor.  
It’s easy, and Eggsy lives for moments like this, when they find their little bubble of peace in the world, can just enjoy each other’s company.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking about somethin’”, Eggsy says in between bites, resists the urge to steal a bite of Harry’s spring rolls. “We’ve never really celebrated our anniversary, did we? Like, of getting’ together.”  
It’s nothing that has been bothering him, not per se, but it’s something that has crossed his mind ever so often, on missions and in restaurants and sometimes, at night, snuggled against Harry on the sofa, but before he could bring it up there had always been something more important.

Next to him, Harry looks at him curiously while he swallows his bite of sashimi, little specks of soy sauce still on his glasses. “I suppose you’re right, we haven’t.”  
“Any reason for that? ‘Cause I don’t know any.”  
“Well, for our first one, you were in Beirut, I think? And then the second one, oh heavens, I’ve forgotten, but there was definitely a mission you were on too. And then I suppose I just forgot about it. You don’t mind that terribly, do you?”  
Harry looks honestly concerned; Eggsy just shakes his head with the hint of a smile.  
“Nah. I mean, if did, I could’ve said somethin’ myself, right? I just thought since we don’t really do birthdays anymore, we could do that instead?”

Eggsy pauses for a second, just in case Harry wants to reject the idea already, then continues. “Y’know, have a bit o’ a lie in, go out to some fancy restaurant, have amazing anniversary sex, that kinda thing.”  
It takes a moment, but then Harry’s lips curl up into a smile, a pleased one, and Eggsy knows what his answer will be before Harry even gives it. “That sounds lovely.”  
“Yeah?”  
The words make him more excited than Eggsy would ever have imagined; his heart jumping in his chest, his lips turning into a bright smile. Maybe this is more important than he thought.  
“Absolutely.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Roxy is thirty-five, and Eggsy knows that something has happened, something has changed the second she walks into his office.  
There’s a smile on Roxy lips Eggsy has never seen before, happy, almost blissful, like she is untouchable, cannot be brought down by anything, be it worldly or divine.  
“Ya seem rather cheerful today”, Eggsy remarks with a quirk of his lips, a raised eyebrow; it’s too early for a real smile. The only reason he is up is because his last mission sent him to Burma for just long enough to make the jet lag suck arse.

“I am”, Roxy answers and Eggsy expects an explanation to follow, but it doesn’t, at least not for another few moments. Instead, Roxy takes a deep breath, her eyes so bright that Eggsy thinks he could go blind looking at her for too long.  
“Eggsy”, she mutters, looks down and then up again, clenches her hands as if she didn’t know quite how to say this. “I’m pregnant.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four, spins Roxy around when he wants to hug her goodbye, her laughter cheerful, carefree. It’s been a long time since he has last seen her like this, because while the last almost-end of the world didn’t ruin her as much as it did Eggsy, it still changed her like it changed all of them.  
“I’m going to be a mum”, Roxy mutters and tightens her arms around Eggsy’s shoulders, presses her face against his shoulder, as if she was trying to hide from the world. “Can you believe that? A mum.”

“I can’t”, Eggsy replies, and it’s the truth; he hardly feels like an adult, so the thought of Roxy having children is as scary as it is amazing. “I honestly can’t.”  
“Me neither.” Roxy tightens her hold again before she pulls back, suddenly looking a little bit shy, unsure. “Thing is, we want to have the baby christened, once it’s here and I thought that maybe you’d be the godfather? Harry won’t mind, he’s not that interested in it.”  
“Me?” Eggsy is faintly aware that his mouth is hanging open, that he must be looking like a complete idiot, but he can’t bring himself to care, because this seems huge, almost too big. “Doesn’t Haz have sisters? Won’t they mind?”  
“They might.” Roxy just shrugs, looks up at him with earnest, brown eyes, hopeful, and Eggsy loves her with all his heart. “I’d rather it be you, though.”  
“Well, in that case…” Eggsy swallows, a grin spreading his lips so wide it hurts, his chest feeling too small to contain all the affection he has for Roxy, for her baby. His godson, goddaughter. “Yeah. Sure. I’d fuckin’ love to.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Merlin is fifty-nine, comes into his office with a manila folder in his hand, his expression carefully calm. It’s always a bad sign, a very bad one, because although Merlin is always collected, his face is hardly ever as blank as it is now.  
“Galahad”, he greets, and Eggsy forgets about the report he is writing for a moment. “I’ve got a mission for you.”  
Usually, it’s Harry who comes to tell him that, so Eggsy is momentarily confused, his brows furrowing as Merlin puts down the folder on his desk, clasps his hands behind his back.  
“Why’s it ya who is tellin’ me about this?”, he asks even while he takes the folder, opens it to see the picture of a woman in her fifties.  
“I’m telling you so Harry won’t have to.”

It’s the kind of answer that shouldn’t tell Eggsy anything and yet it tells him more than he needs to know – the expression on Merlin’s face, the picture, the fact that Harry doesn’t want to speak to him about it – and he can feel his own expression fall. Of course he knew that there would be more honeypot missions - they weren’t common, but happened occasionally - but he never really thought about them, not since Harry happened.  
“Oh no”, he answers the question Merlin hasn’t yet asked. “Can’t anyone else do it?”  
“I’m afraid not”, the other says almost gently, and that is even more frightening. “I would have sent Bors, or Percival, seeing that they’re unattached, but unfortunately, the Contessa di Radda has a rather… specific type, and one which you fit to a t.”  
“Can’t I just kill her instead? Torture her for information?”

He’s grasping at straws and it’s ridiculous, because it shouldn’t be such a big deal, and yet it is. Because Eggsy knows that Harry will be sitting at home, knowing just what he’s doing, or even worse, will be watching the footage, trying to determine which moan is genuine and which one is faked; it would have been hard before, but it’s an even more frightening thought after what happened with Elyan, even if it’s been almost two years.  
“We need her both alive and well”, Merlin says and crushes every last hope Eggsy still had. “I’m sorry.”

Eggsy stays silent for a bit, tries to sort through his thoughts, then cracks a smile, hoping that it doesn’t look as pained as it feels. “I guess I’ll have to lie back and think of England, then, huh?”  
Merlin doesn’t even pretend to laugh.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and for the very first time, he isn’t excited about coming home.  
There is light burning in the living room, so he knows that Harry is there, that he is waiting, and it’s ridiculous, because nothing happened yet, and because this is work and not pleasure, not cheating, and yet, Eggsy feels like he has to confess.

He finds Harry in his favourite chair, a soft cardigan wrapped around his shoulders and a book in his hands, looking undisturbed, so much calmer than Eggsy expected.  
“’Lo”, he greets, walks over to the sofa, his feet dragging, and falls down on it, not yet meeting Harry’s eyes. “So, that mission.”  
There’s no doubt that Harry knows which mission he is talking about, since Arthur has to approve of every mission the knights go on and that makes it a little bit easier, but not much.  
“Yes?”, Harry asks, and Eggsy drops his head back to the backrest, staring at the ceiling.  
“I dunno. It seems wrong, sleepin’ with her. Sleepin’ with anyone who’s not ya, actually.”  
He lets his gaze drift down to Harry’s face at last, finds the other looking back at him with a smile, fond and maybe a little bit relieved.

“I’m glad to hear that”, Harry answers softly, closes his book and gets up so he can sit down next to Eggsy instead. It doesn’t take more than a second until Eggsy has changed his position, his head having dropped down to Harry’s shoulder, their fingers laced together.  
“So ya don’t mind?”  
“I do. But that’s just me, just because I don’t like the thought of you being touched by anyone else. I’m just jealous.” Harry’s voice is gentle, but earnest; he wraps an arm around Eggsy’s shoulders, drops a kiss to the crown of Eggsy’s head. “It’s not because I fear that anything could happen. Not because I don’t trust you.”

It’s a strange sensation, hearing the words, like they have caused the sun to shine directly into his chest, his heart; Harry _trusts_ him. And that is all that matters, all that ever mattered.  
“Alright”, he mutters without thinking, “Yeah. I’ll do it. But I won’t like a second of it.”  
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all that lovely feedback for the last chapter, I hope you're not too disappointed that there isn't a cliffhanger this ;D  
> The next chapter will be focussing a lot more on Roxy (for obvious reasons), but if there's anything you'd like to hear about, let me know! ♥


	13. Chapter 13

Eggsy is thirty-four and balls deep in a woman he couldn’t care less for. Her lip gloss is smeared across her chin, her eyes are half-lidded, and Eggsy wishes that the Contessa di Radda – “Call me Elisabetta” – had agreed to let him fuck her from behind.  
She’s moaning, gasping, and Eggsy thrusts into her a little harder, draws a breathless cry from her lips.

A few years ago, he would have relished in it, would have smirked and done her twice at least, but now he couldn’t care less, not when Elisabetta is soft in all the wrong places, has blonde hair that gets caught in the lip gloss her kisses have left on Eggsy’s face. Everything about her is wrong, and yet Eggsy forces his thoughts away from Harry, knowing that his erection will have no chance once he starts comparing the Contessa with his lover.   
Instead, he thinks about as much porn as he can think of, little twinks calling their partner daddy, attractive brunettes moaning into their girlfriend’s cunt, redheads that choke on someone’s cock. He made Harry spend an afternoon with him looking at porn before he went to Italy, knowing he would need it, so he has more than enough to choose from.

“Harder, oh harder, please-“, she gasps out and Eggsy resists the urge to roll his eyes, just complies. This is going to be a long night.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and takes a shower that lasts more than half an hour, the Contessa snoring softly in her bed. He doesn’t feel dirty, but used in the worst way, like he can still feel her fingers trailing over his skin, her lips on his throat, everywhere where they should never have been.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and his skin feels too small for him, prickling with tension. He didn’t want to go home, not after this mission, but did so anyway, remembering the last time he refused to talk to Harry about something that seemed to overtake his mind.   
It doesn’t feel right, still doesn’t, but when he walks into the living rom, Harry is looking up at him from his book like he knows exactly what Eggsy is going through and the only thing he can do is cross the distance between them and fall into the other’s arms.

They are warm and wrap around him within a second, one of Harry’s hands coming up to tuck Eggsy’s head against his neck, carding long fingers through Eggsy’s hair.   
“That bad?”, Harry asks and Eggsy just nods mutely, squeezes his eyes shut because he doesn’t want to think about anything but the other’s touch, Harry’s familiar smell. “Oh dear.”  
Eggsy waits for the questions to come, about what happened and what made it so bad, maybe some subtle hint that Harry would very much like to hear how it’s his touch Eggsy wants, only his, but there’s nothing, just the other’s hand in his hair, Harry’s lips brushing the lightest of kisses against the crown of his head.

And slowly, ever so slowly, Eggsy feels the tension seep out of his muscles, leaving his limbs boneless and weak, and Harry continues to hold him, doesn’t let go once until Eggsy has fallen asleep.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry is sixty, wakes him up with a gentle kiss to his forehead and a pat to his cheek.   
“Eggsy, as much as I love you, you’ve got to wake up”, he mutters and Eggsy grumbles, turns his head so he can hide his face against Harry’s thigh. It’s nice, being like this, half-awake and warm, with Harry all around him, and he doesn’t want to let go yet.   
“Eggsy, dearest, I mean it.”

There is a hand on his forearm and Eggsy ignores it when Harry shakes him, keeps his eyes closed. He can faintly remember that being awake didn’t feel nice and he won’t make the mistake of waking up again any time soon.  
Only that Harry doesn’t seem to agree, because he shakes him again, a little harder this time. “As happy as I am that you enjoy sleeping on top of me, my bladder really isn’t.”  
His voice is teasing, but even if his brain is still fuzzy, still not quite awake, Eggsy can hear that he means it, and he considers it a proof of just how much he loves Harry when he makes himself sit up, still with his eyes closed. Not for long, though; Eggsy falls down onto the couch again the second Harry has gotten up, curling up in the spot of heat the other has left.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Roxy is thirty-five, holds up a tiny pair of socks for him to inspect.   
“What about those?”  
Stepping closer, Eggsy takes the tiny socks, looking at the green-and-grey camouflage pattern down with a frown. “Rox, no offence, but these are kind of shit.”  
“They are, aren’t they?”  
She sounds defeated, looks the same when Eggsy raises his gaze; he has never seen Roxy look hopeless, but it might be a close call now. Without dropping the pair of socks, Eggsy pulls her into a hug, presses a sloppy kiss to her cheek.   
“It’s a lot, huh?”, he asks, and Roxy nods, her hair tickling Eggsy’s neck, his jaw. “I know it is.”

Against his shoulder, Roxy sighs, winds her arms around Eggsy’s waist. “It's ridiculous, isn’t it? I’m so happy about it and yet everything terrifies me. I can’t even pick out socks. Because you’re right and they look shit and I don’t want my baby to grow up and hate me because I bought socks that have a camouflage pattern on them.”  
She takes a deep breath and Eggsy wants to tell her that everything is going to be alright and whatever she says next won’t change a thing about that, but doesn’t, gives Roxy a chance to finish instead.   
“I’m a _spy_ , Eggsy. What was I thinking? What if I die and Harry will be alone with the baby and it won’t ever know its mum or how much I love it already or that I can’t even pick socks without throwing half a fit in fucking Debenhams.”

She’s not shaking, but Eggsy has the feeling that Roxy would be if not for Kingsman’s training, so he hugs her tighter until she’s breathing steadily again, her chin resting on his shoulder.  
“Finished?”, he asks and Roxy nods mutely. “Ya gonna be fine. Haz is gonna be fine, ya kid is gonna be fine, everything is gonna be fine. I know that everythin’ is scary as fuck right now, I’ve seen it when Daisy was born, and that was my mum’s second kid. But really, Rox, you’ll make a great mum.”  
Eggsy pulls back, but keeps his hands on Roxy’s shoulders, holding her steady and making her look at him. “Ya a spy, and maybe that means ya will die too early to see ya kid grow up, but that can happen to everyone. And I know that ya a fuckin’ great spy, so if anyone is gonna survive all this and retire with seventy-three to live in Ibiza with her husband and her twelve grandchildren, it’s ya.”

He gives her a smile and Roxy smiles back gratefully, her eyes just slightly glossy. “Thanks.”  
“Anytime.” Eggsy’s smile turns into a grin as his hands drop back to his sides, one of them still holding the pair of tiny socks. “And now let’s get back to finding ya kid clothes it won’t have to hate ya for.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Roxy is thirty-five, they return to Roxy’s flat with seven shopping bags.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and goes on a mission to Burma. It’s warm and wet and he charms a waiter into letting him into the kitchen of the restaurant his target eats most nights.  
He’s done it a hundred times before, and it only takes a few nice words, a pretty smile and some lingering touches, but while Eggsy usually delights in these things, he feels uneasy now, like he is doing something wrong. It’s ridiculous, it’s like there’s the hint of fingers ghosting down his back, a heavily-accented voice calling him _caro_.   
Elliot is in his ear, telling him when the target enters the restaurant, and Phyu, the waiter, sends him a heated glance when he re-enters the kitchen. Eggsy returns it, has to, throws in a wink for good measure, and Phyu blushes, hurries outside with three plates stacked on his arms and hands.   
It gives Eggsy just enough time to slip the poison into his target’s soup.

“Alright, Galahad, let’s get you out of there, then”, Elliot drawls and Eggsy gives a short nod, sighs in relief.   
“I’ll be back in a moment”, he tells one of the cooks, who looks like he couldn’t care less, then slips out of the door he came through in the first place, hardly feels sorry for poor Phyu at all.   
“Breaking hearts wherever you go, aren’t you?”, Elliot asks and Eggsy freezes for a second, before he realises that the other is only teasing. They haven’t talked about the crush Elliot used to have on him, not once since Eggsy had turned him down, and while Eggsy has been rather certain that the other has been over it for quite some time, he never would have dared to joke about it.   
“Y’know me, can’t help it”, he shoots back, just a second too late, but Elliot at least pretends not to notice.   
“Don’t I just?”, he answers instead, his voice light and still teasing, nothing more. “Don’t I just.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry is sixty, pours them both another glass of wine. They’re at home, have been the entire day and it’s the biggest luxury Eggsy can think of: a whole weekend alone with Harry, no work, no one to disturb him.   
“So, any plans for tomorrow?”, Eggsy asks and Harry shakes his head, ruffles his hair when he walks back to the kitchen to put the wine in the fridge. Riesling, one of Harry’s favourites, and after all this time, after more than six years, Eggsy knows that hardly anything annoys his lover as much as warm white wine.  
“None. How about you?”  
“Nah.” Eggsy grins, takes a gulp of wine while he still can, while Harry isn’t watching. He might be thirty-four, but that has never stopped Harry from giving him little lessons on manners. “Thought we could just chill, maybe I could try out that recipe my mum sent me for roast beef, ‘cause that was delicious when I went over last time.”

“Sounds great.” Harry sits down again, holds his hand out for Eggsy to take; their fingers intertwine and Eggsy lets his gaze linger on their hands for a second, smiling softly. By now, easy intimacy isn’t new anymore, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it less.   
“And as a thank ya, ya could tell me how ya fell in love with me.”  
“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you?”   
There is a mischievous smile on Harry’s smile, which tells Eggsy that the other is not inclined to do so at all.

“I would, yeah.” Eggsy sits back, pouts even though he would never admit it, arms crossed in front of his chest. “An’ I still don’t get why ya won’t tell me. ‘s not a secret, is it? Can’t have been anything gross, or creepy, I mean, it’s ya we’re talkin’ about.”  
“It wasn’t.” Harry takes a delicate sip of his glass, squeezes Eggsy’s hand. “It was anything but that.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Roxy is thirty-five, yells into the phone, because she’s in London, and Eggsy is half asleep and in Shanghai.   
“Eggsy! I just had an appointment with my doctor! It’s twins, I’m going to have twins!”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and cuddles into Harry, his hands drifting over the older man’s chest, down to his stomach. When they first got together, Harry had been all hard muscle, smooth skin, and the other is still fit as hell, but he’s softer now, making it obvious that Arthur isn’t a job to run around, to fight, but to stay at HQ, eat too much take-out and visit the gym less and less.   
He’s been noticing it for some time now, and thinks that Harry has too, but unlike the other man, Eggsy doesn’t mind it at all.   
In contrary, he likes every new gram Harry puts on, because it reminds him that Harry is safe now, isn’t being shot at anymore.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry is sixty, sits down and looks at them expectantly. All the knights except for Roxy have gathered, even if most of them just via their glasses, and Eggsy is just so glad that Harry agreed to do it like this, not just ask Roxy outright. Maybe she would have said yes, she probably would have, but Eggsy isn’t sure, and he’d rather not take the risk. Because he knows Roxy, most likely better than anyone else, excluding Haz, and there is nothing that his best friend despises as much as letting someone down.   
“As most, if not all of you, know, Lancelot is pregnant”, Harry starts once everyone has settled down, has poured their drinks and made themselves comfortable. “And we would like to keep her that way, so I am planning on trying to keep her as safe as possible. Now, Galahad here has voiced his concerns if that gesture would be appreciated or not, so I am proposing the following: none of you breathes a word about this to Lancelot and I will assign the more dangerous, more challenging missions to all of you, instead of her, until she’s back on track. Does that sound amendable to you?”

It’s been years and yet Eggsy still loves to see Harry like this, dominant and in control, a leader. He nods, of course he does, but he also knows that, if it was something different Harry asked of him, he’d agree as well, just because it’s Harry who’s asking.

The others do the same and Eggsy’s heart feels a little bit lighter, not just because he can be sure now that nothing will happen to Roxy or the baby, but because it’s proof that, if they have to, they will stick together, personal differences or not.  
Harry seems to think the same; there’s a smile on his lips, small and pleased. “Very well. Expect a few hard months then. And thank you on Lancelot’s behalf.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry is sixty, and they break the glasses the other wears nowadays during a rather wild make-out session. He has spent the last two and a half weeks in Mozambique so the making out once he finally got home, tired but unharmed, was to be expected; what wasn’t was the crack when Harry rolls Eggsy over so he can press him into the sofa, the feeling of broken plastic and glass stabbing into Eggsy’s back.

“Fuck”, he swears, pushes a confused looking Harry back until he can reach behind himself, pull the tattered frame of Harry’s glasses out to present them to the older man. One of the arms is bent at a weird angle, the other one missing altogether and Eggsy mourns the fact a little bit; he liked how they looked on Harry, the thick, black frame doing everything to accentuate the other man’s face and nothing to hide it.  
Harry’s eyes focus on them after a few confused moments, his brow furrows, and Eggsy is about to say that he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to, when the older man plucks the ruined glasses from his grasp, flings them aside.   
“Screw that”, he growls, and pushes Eggsy back onto his back again, smothering every protest Eggsy could come up with with another kiss.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harr is sixty, comes home with a new pair of glasses. They’re almost identical to the ones they have broken, and Eggsy is satisfied with his life again.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Roxy turns thirty-five and for the first time since they have known each other they do not get drunk to celebrate. Instead, they end up on the floor of Roxy’s living room, unpacking box upon box, half of them belonging to the babies on the way, half of them to Haz.   
Who is moving in with Roxy, since his flat is too small to house four.   
It feels a bit like watching his best friend grow up, which is ridiculous, not only because Roxy is pregnant, but also since she’s a year older than Eggsy.

“So, where should the – well. What the fuck is this even?”, Eggsy asks, holds up a device he is fairly certain he has never seen before. Roxy shoots him a glance and groans, while Haz’s eyes light up.  
“This is the greatest thing you have ever laid your eyes on, my friend”, the other explains, walks over to throw an arm around Eggsy’s shoulders. “This is an automatic mini donut maker.”  
“…which you said you would sell on eBay or something”, Roxy adds, but Eggsy hardly hears her, his entire attention focussed on the man next to him.   
“Ya taking the fuckin’ piss”, he mutters, his mouth probably still hanging open. “Show me.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and isn’t drunk, but definitely high on sugar. Around him and Haz, a few dozen mini donuts are scattered on the floor and Eggsy might be able to smell colours and hear Roxy’s disgruntled amusement as she watches the father of her unborn children try and balance a stack of five mini donuts on his chin.  
“I love ya”, Eggsy tells the other man, even if he can’t bring himself to move enough to look at Haz; he’s too full. “I mean it. We take the donut maker and go and get married. A three-way marriage or somethin’. Yeah.”

“I’m going to tell Harry about that”, Roxy pipes in, adds, “Well. Not you, darling, his Harry.”  
“That’s okay.” Eggsy slowly turns his head anyway so he can look at his best friend, half a smile on his face. “I mean, I love Harry with all my heart, I do, but this guy. He feeds me mini donuts. Donuts so small I can fit four of them in my mouth at once. That’s something different. Harry’ll understand.”  
“…I’m definitely telling him this.”  
Roxy is still trying not to look amused, he can tell that much, even when her boyfriend rolls over to put an arm around Eggsy, as if he was in need of protection. It’s rather sweet. “Let it go, babe, she doesn’t understand our love. Or our mini donuts.”  
“You’re wrong, I don’t understand why I let you father my children.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and comes home far too late, still feeling slightly sick from the donuts and slightly sore from all the boxes. He doesn’t even bother to take off his shirt, just falls down onto the mattress next to Harry, making sure not to touch the other so he won’t wake him up.  
It’s one of the things that have come with age; Harry sleeps through far more than he used to, and that’s good, because his beautiful, wonderful lover needs all the sleep he can get.   
“I still love ya most of all”, Eggsy tells him, voice muffled by the pillow, and doesn’t even care if Harry hears him or not. He knows it anyway.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and takes a mission in Russia which he knows Roxy would have had to go on if she was available; her Russian is at least twice as good as his. Still, he doesn’t complain, even if he comes home with a deep gash down his side, the tip of three of his fingers singed and throbbing with every breath he takes.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry presses a kiss to the fresh scar on his flank, brushes his fingers down the raised, gnarled mark with something that borders on reverence.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Rob is thirty-five, drops by for a beer or two with Adrian holding onto the hem of his jacket. The boy is just five years old, and Eggsy’s heart aches a bit when he thinks back to how Daisy looked when she was still that little, even when he crouches down to shake Adrian’s hand once the boy has dared to come out from behind Rob’s legs.   
“How are ya? Did ya get ya daddy here safely?”, he asks, and Adrian nods, gives him the most precious, shy smile. For a second, Eggsy wonders how it would be to have children himself, watch them grow up.

“He did, was very good at it. Stopped in front o’ every red light.” Rob grins, every inch of him the proud father, ruffles Adrian’s hair. “’s good to see ya. Linds says hi, too.”  
“Good to see ya to”, Eggsy says and he feels a bit melancholic somehow, because this is something that he will never have – because of his job, because of who he is, because of Harry. Harry who will be sixty-one this year. It’s worth it, it really is, but sometimes Eggsy can’t help but wonder.

 

Eggsy is thirty-four and Harry is sixty, slips under the blankets next to him.   
“Harry, what d’ya think of children?”, Eggsy asks, watches the older man’s face twist up in confusion.  
“I quite like them?”  
“Nah, don’t mean it like that.” Eggsy turns to his side so he can face Harry, a small smile on his lips. He is fairly certain that he knows which answer he will get – in fact, he isn’t even sure if it isn’t exactly the one he wants to get too – but he still wants to hear it. “I mean like. Children.”  
“Oh.”

Harry tenses up, which is not at all what Eggsy wanted; the older man reaches out to take his hand, holds it with the long, capable fingers that have killed more men than Eggsy could count, that have taken Eggsy apart in ways he had never even heard about before sharing the other’s bed. He seems unsure what to say and it makes Eggsy’s heart ache a little.   
“Well, there were times when I considered having some”, Harry starts and his voice sounds a little bit forlorn. “But… if that is what you want, my heart, then I’m not the right man for it. If I was fifteen years younger…”  
It’s not what he was trying to say, oh God, of course, it isn’t, and while Eggsy’s heart have been hurting before, it breaks now, crumbles, shatters.  
“But ya aren’t”, Eggsy says as resolutely as he possibly can, lunges forward so he can wrap his arms around Harry, hugging him close, so he can whisper the next words into the other’s ear. “And that’s okay.”

 

Eggsy turns thirty-five while assembling a second crib for Roxy’s second baby, trying to dodge the cereal Roxy occasionally flicks at him. She’s resting on the couch with her feet propped up, and while she is definitely not _too pregnant to move or help with any of this_ like she claims she is, Eggsy doesn’t mind indulging her, not now, not ever.   
“So, thought of any names yet?”, he asks while he tries to make sense of the IKEA instructions in his hands, which, admittedly, have become a lot easier to understand these past years, but are still anything but _easy_.   
“Well…” Roxy flicks another Cheerio at him, then stuffs a handful in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “We haven’t talked about it much, to be honest. I kind of like Emma a lot, and I’ve been thinking about Eugene, maybe, because of my uncle, you know, the one who died when I was twelve? But I don’t know.”

“The uncle with the apple orchard in the country?”, Eggsy asks, looking up from the mess on the floor, and Roxy nods, instead of giving him a proper answer, because her mouth is full with cereal. “Yeah, sounds nice. Maybe Haz’s got some aunts an’ uncles too, maybe a Geraldine or a Mildred, would fit well, wouldn’t it?”  
“You’re an arse.”  
There are more Cheerios flicked at him, but Eggsy uses a yet unidentified part of the crib to shield himself from them, laughing.   
“Y’know if ya need another really uncool name for ya kid, I think Gary’s really goin’ out of style.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five, rolls over and asks into the night, “Did ya fall in love with me because of my wicked good looks at least?”  
“Go to sleep, Eggsy.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and wakes up, because the mattress shifts and because Harry presses a kiss to his forehead, light and sweet. His alarm hasn’t rung, so he decides that it’s too early for both of them, reaches out to wrap his arms around Harry, pull him down again, the older man’s laughter sweet to his ears, even if Eggsy hasn’t even managed to open his eyes yet.   
“I was going to make breakfast”, Harry explains, and Eggsy just makes a non-committal sound, shoves and shifts until Harry is draped half on top of him, warm and very nice right where he is.   
“No”, he explains when the other won’t stop wiggling, tightens his hold around Harry. “Stay.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Harry is sixty, waves his fork around a little too enthusiastically for Eggsy’s liking.   
“…And then that prick, that Mr.- oh my, what was his name again? I can’t believe I forgot that already, I’ve met the man a couple of hours ago.”  
“Crawley, was it?”, Eggsy supplies, tries not to think too much about it, because in the end, as long as Harry doesn’t forget his name, everything is well. “Something Crawley.”  
“Ah yes. Handsome fellow, but apart from that…”, Harry continues the story like he didn’t even notice, but Eggsy knows he did. He always does.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Elliot comes barging into his office without knocking, and Eggsy hates it that he even notices things like this these days; Kingsman has become almost too big a part of his life.   
“Eggsy, watch this”, the other exclaims, pressing a couple of buttons on the strange device strapped around his wrist, and before Eggsy can even start asking what the hell is happening, the device flickers, starts to whirr. There are a few seconds in which Eggsy just stares, then there’s blue light and the outlines of what might be the plans of HQ and…  
“Fuck _off_.”  
“Isn’t it great?”

Elliot is looking down at the hologram lovingly, and Eggsy gets up, passes the distance between them so he can watch what is happening properly, since, he’ll readily admit it, he’s becoming almost as much of a geek when it comes to new tech as Elliot is. It’s detailed, the plan the device is projecting, with a little blinking dot indicating where Elliot is standing, the room even labelled correctly as _Office #1701_.  
“ _Fuck off_ ”, Eggsy repeats with feeling, even while he takes Elliot’s hand to look at the device properly – it’s rather large, obviously a prototype, but it’s also _amazing_.   
“We’re trying to fit it into a watch, which would mean that the darts would have to go, probably, but that might just be worth it. Or we’ll just let you agents pick which one you want for every mission. Something like that.”  
“Any chance I can keep that till then?”, Eggsy asks hopefully, even if he knows the answer – Merlin might not even know that Elliot is showing him this.   
“Merlin would have both my balls for that, so no way in fucking hell.”  
“…well, it was worth a try.”  
“Also”, Elliot continues, with a mischievous grin, “I’m gonna take this baby home with me today.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Roxy calls him when he’s still at work, although it’s nearing eight in the evening and he promised Harry and himself a quiet night at home for once.   
“Eggsy?”, she asks instead of greeting him like she usually does and maybe that should make him worry already, but it’s late and he’s so, so tired. “Can you come over? Please?”  
“Would tomorrow be okay?”, he asks, rubs a hand over his face, thinking that really, Haz could get his girlfriend the Cheerios and disgusting pickles she craves these days for a change. “I’m still at HQ and-“  
“Eggsy, _please_. I just told Harry all about Kingsman.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Roxy is thirty-six, bites on her fingernails while she tries not to look at her boyfriend, who is sitting on the couch in front of them, shoulders slumped and eyes on the floor.  
“And you never thought about telling me that before? That you’re a secret agent? That those bruises weren’t from falling down or getting mugged or whatever bullshit excuse you told me but from, what, saving the world?”  
He sounds angry, betrayed, and Eggsy can’t even blame him.   
“No, that’s not- I wanted to, I wanted to so much, but we’re not allowed to tell anyone. I’m basically breaking every rule in the book right now, but…” Roxy’s voice trails off, and Eggsy squeezes her shoulder to know that he’s there for her. “I wanted you to know it before… before the kids…”

“Jesus, the kids.” Haz looks up, still angry, but now sounding just as worried. “All this time, when you were away on _business trips_ , were you running around? Getting shot at? They could have gotten-“  
“Nah”, Eggsy interrupts, because he can feel Roxy shrinking under his hand, and he can’t take it. “She didn’t, we took care o’ that. Only the easy stuff, watchin’ people, that’s what she did, so she and the twins would be safe. Don’t worry about that. And don’t worry ‘bout Rox either, she’s aces at what she does. Better than most of us.”  
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”  
“I guess?... Is it working?”  
“…A little.” Haz finally looks up and Eggsy knows that he should leave, because this is between them, doesn’t have anything to do with him anymore. “But Roxy, is it- I mean… how can I ever know you’re safe?”  
He sounds as if he has lost her already, desperate and heartbroken, and Eggsy gets up from his chair, squeezes Roxy’s shoulder one last time to let her know he is leaving. She looks up for a moment, nods and Eggsy doesn’t expect anything more, just turns around and shows himself out, hears her say, “I can’t promise you anything, but Eggsy is right, I’m good at what I do and I’ll always, always do everything to come back to you…”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Roxy texts him that night when he is finally cuddled up with Harry on the couch, watching the remake of the first Fast And The Furious movie, which, honestly, isn’t that good.

_He’s still pissed, but we’re gonna get through it (:_

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Harry is sixty, says, “I’m sorry, Eggsy. There’s no other way.”  
“That’s _bullshit_. He’s the dad of her children, she just told him what she did for her living.”  
“I know.” Harry sighs, and although he looks like he’s honestly sorry, Eggsy can’t help but feel anger blossom in his chest, fierce and hot and not for him, for Roxy, for his best friend, who just wanted the man she loves to know what she spends her life with. “And if she had come to talk to me beforehand, we could have worked something out, but like this… the rules are strict and I can’t bend them, not for you, not for Roxy, not for anyone.”  
“But it’s just Haz!”

“I know that, Eggsy, but it doesn’t matter.” Harry still sounds regretful, but firm, strict. “It was against the rules and Roxy will be reprimanded, just like any other agent would. And that is it.”  
“It’s fucking wrong!”  
“But it’s the way this is done and has been done for ages! And I am neither able, nor willing, to change that just because the person in the wrong is your best friend!”  
“Fuck the way it’s done then!” Eggsy sits back, arms crossed, and he knows that he’ll regret what he says next before the words even leave his lips. “And fuck ya too.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and comes home feeling worse than he has in years. The lights are on in the bedroom, which means that Harry is home, but for once, it doesn’t make Eggsy feel better, it only causes his heart to pick up its pace, pounding away in his chest almost painfully.   
A few years ago, Eggsy would just have stalled, maybe would have stayed at Roxy’s for the night, even if she is very, very pregnant now, has to use the loo every hour at least, but he’s older now, a little bit wiser at least in that regard, so he doesn’t even allow himself the time he’d need to fix himself a drink. Instead, he walks up the stairs, quietly, just in case that Harry is sleeping already, only left the lights on for him; he does that quite a lot after all.

But not this time, this time, Harry is sitting on the bed, leaning against the bedrest and reading something on his tablet, but looking up when Eggsy steps into the room.   
Neither of them says a word for a few seconds, which might just be worse than having Harry scream at him, even if just a little bit.  
“Hi”, Eggsy finally offers, his voice tentative, a little bit shaky, his hands feeling far too cold.   
A couple of moments pass, and it almost looks like Harry won’t say anything, won’t forgive him this easily, but then the other tilts his head, mutters, “Hello.”  
And God, if that isn’t better than nothing already.

“Y’know that I didn’t mean that. Well. All of that. Don’t ya?” He still doesn’t dare come closer, just hovers somewhere in between the door and their bed, between Harry and, if needs be, the sofa, if needs be, Roxy’s flat. “’Cause I didn’t. ‘Cause I love Roxy, but I love ya so much more and I’ve loved ya for so long that I sometimes it’s easy sometimes to forget that I should never take ya for granted.”  
There is still so much he could say – should say – but Eggsy stops anyway, just in case Harry wants to say something too.

“Thank you for that”, Harry answers, slowly, but Eggsy is willing to take whatever he can get as long as Harry is talking. “I didn’t think you meant it, but that doesn’t change that… well. I’m your boss, Eggsy, still. And there are going to be decisions which I will make and you won’t like and I cannot have you throw a fit every time that happens.”  
He’s right and Eggsy hates him a bit for that, even if he nods, hangs his head.   
“Yeah. I know, it won’t happen again, I promise.”  
“Alright.” There is something in Harry’s voice that makes him look up, just in time to see Harry push back the blanket on his side of the bed, an invitation that couldn’t be clearer.

Eggsy doesn’t answer, just crosses the distance between them, a silly grin on his lips and his heart feeling so much lighter when he slips under the covers, cuddling up to Harry without wasting a second. It feels too good to be back here, at the other’s side, even if it’s only been a few hours since their little fight.   
“I really love ya, though”, he tells Harry, or rather, his chest, even if he is certain that Harry knows. “Like, a lot.”  
There’s no answer, just an arm wrapped around him and a kiss pressed to the crown of his head, and although Eggsy knows that nothing is forgotten yet, this is more than enough.   
“I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Harry is sixty, comes home with his hair a mess and a long smudge on one of the lenses of his glasses; he looks like hell and Eggsy is at his side the second he sets eyes on the other.   
“Jesus, Harry, what happened?”, he asks, worried although it’s probably nothing, just Harry overworking himself again.   
“Nothing, nothing, my heart”, the other answers, but even his voice sounds exhausted, makes Eggsy’s heart clench painfully. “Just, it was a long day. Too long.”  
“Yeah, I know. Ya got up before me and I’ve been home for hours… I almost called Merlin to drag ya back home”, Eggsy mutters while he leads Harry back to the couch, letting himself plop down next to his lover.

“I almost wish you did”, Harry answers, shifts until he can lay down with his head in Eggsy’s lap. Just like always, Eggsy starts running his fingers through the other’s hair, tracing the ridges of his ear with his fingertips. “I was stuck in meetings with both the Russians and the Chinese for more than five hours. And that dreadful Crawley called again, twice. I swear, if I hear his voice again, I’ll have Merlin change my number. Insufferable, that’s what he is.”  
“What did he want?”, Eggsy asks, more out of curtesy than curiosity, since usually in cases like this, he gets to hear something about politics and diplomacy he neither cares about nor understands.   
“To give us a shitload of money. And all for the price of making him a Kingsman.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and spends two weeks and three different countries.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Roxy is thirty-six, and it’s adorable how she keeps resting her hands on her stomach, rubbing it without seeming to notice. They’re at her flat, because Roxy’s back hurts too much to get up for longer than a few seconds, but Eggsy doesn’t mind it, especially not when Haz is in the kitchen, cooking all of them dinner.  
“So, did ya finally decide on names?”, he asks like he has done at least six times before, expecting the same answer as always – no, there’s still time, it’s too important a decision to rush it. But Roxy nods, one hand on her stomach and one holding a glass of apple juice.   
“We did, actually.”

“Really?” Eggsy sits up a little too fast, disturbing Uhura, Roxy’s far too fat poodle. “It’s fuckin’ time, honestly. Tell me everything.”  
“Well… for the girl, it’s going to be Emma.” Roxy is smiling and Eggsy can’t help but smile as well; she looks so happy, so impossibly loving that it’s almost hard to watch. “Emma… well, Petunia. I couldn’t really prevent that, it was Harry’s mother’s name. And our boy, he’ll be called Friedrich.”  
“Friedrich?” Eggsy knows that the shock he feels is audible in his voice; he would think that Roxy is kidding him, but her face is perfectly straight and she _was_ thinking about naming her son Eugene. “You’re fuckin’ with me, aren’t ya?”  
  
“No, why?” Roxy takes sip of her juice, looks at him curiously, and Eggsy feels shock turn into despair, because he can’t allow Roxy to do that to the boy who isn’t technically his, but is a little his anyway. “I quite like the name.”  
Eggsy is still trying to find the words to change Roxy’s mind for now and always when she bursts into laughter. “Oh. My. God. I can’t believe you actually thought- oh my God, _Friedrich_. You thought I’d name him _Friedrich_ , I just-“  
“Ya a fuckin’ good liar! How could I’ve known that after _Eugene_ ya wouldn’t pull one o’ those again?”  
“Friedrich!”  
Roxy is still laughing, tears pouring down her cheeks, and Eggsy can’t even be mad that she played him, not when she looks so happy.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Roxy is thirty-six, sucks chocolate sauce from his fingertips while Haz massages her feet, being the perfect boyfriend Eggsy always knew he was.   
“But for real now, how is he gonna be called, the lil’ one?”  
“Edward”, Haz answers, looks up from Roxy’s feet and at her face, his expression so loving, so tender, like she’s the light of his life. “He’s going to be called Edward.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and comes home feeling lighter, because his best friend has found someone who loves her even more than Eggsy does.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Harry turns sixty-one. He hardly notices because he is running through Paris, trying his hardest to stop the assassination of the head of the World Bank.   
The mission is a success and he comes home three days later to find his lover a year older, and yet just like he left him – in his office, a cup of tea on the desk in front of him and an exasperated Merlin at his side.  
“I’m telling you, you stubborn arse, you can’t just dismiss this because you don’t like him! How old are you, twelve?” Merlin shakes his head and Harry shoots Eggsy an amused look which the other hopefully doesn’t notice. “Sometimes, I just can’t believe you.”

“Don’t rip his head off, would ya?”, Eggsy chimes in, claps a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I sorta still need him around for some time.”  
“I can’t promise anything.” Merlin shoots Harry a dark look, which makes it obvious he means business, but then sighs, turns around to leave. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him. For all our sakes.”  
“I’ll try, guv”, Eggsy replies with a grin that is met with another sigh, even if Merlin ruffles his hair on the way out, making Eggsy yelp and bat at his hands; even after years of it, it takes a lot of time to get his hair done like this every morning.

“What have ya done to him now?”, Eggsy asks as soon as Merlin is out of the door, and Harry just sighs, rests his chin on his hands.   
“That Crawley guy, you remember? He keeps bothering us and Merlin wants me to at least consider letting him join. Not a proper agent, but some… new thing. Because of the money, of course.”  
“Lemme guess. Ya won’t.”  
There is a grin on Harry’s lips, mischievous and almost boyish. “No way.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Harry is sixty-one, holds him close while they listen to the prime ministers speech. She does a good job, talking about all the people who died and all those who didn’t, about how there are still some survivors who are not over V-Day, even ten years later, men and women who killed their spouses, their parents, their children.  
Her own husband has been killed in the riots, and it’s things like that which still send a shiver through Eggsy’s body, because he almost, _almost_ didn’t have this.

His hand finds Harry’s and squeezes; the other wraps his other arm around his shoulders a little tighter and Eggsy feels almost bad for making the other be the strong one when Harry almost died.  
“-and even now, even ten years later, all those we have lost are still in our hearts and will live on there forever”, she says, clasps her hands in front of her, bows her head. “I ask for one minute of silence, just like hundreds of other heads of state are doing right now, so we can all unite in thought, in prayer, in memory. To show everyone that that day has brought us closer together, instead of splitting us apart.”

The count down on the bottom of the screen reaches zero, indicating that ten years ago on the second, Valentine’s signal caused the world to go to shit. Harry’s fingers tighten around his, but it’s the only thing that changes; they both bow their head just like billions of others are doing.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Harry is sixty-one, takes him to bed without once letting go once. They fall down on the mattress with their limbs still tangled, and don’t let go until they’ve both fallen asleep.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and it has been dark outside for hours when he looks up from his paperwork, not that it would matter – Harry’s in New Zealand for some meeting, so there’s no one waiting for him at home.   
HQ is quiet at this time of night, most agents either on a mission or at home, and Eggsy likes it, likes the peace he hardly is able to find in such a busy place, even if tonight, it leaves him feeling a little bit melancholic.

Ten years, that’s how long he’s been here, something he hardly noticed before the anniversary of V-Day, and it’s almost frightening to think about, a decade spent in these walls, with this job, with these people. Colleagues, friends, a lover, it’s something he never considered before, a job and a house and a man he loves more than anything else in the world.   
It sounds like he’s grown up, Eggsy realises a second too late, a silent smile spreading across his face although he’s still got a month of paperwork ahead of him; growing up had sounded terrifying to the boy he used to be, and yet he hardly noticed it at all.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and his phone rings, shrill and far too loud, considering that it’s still dark outside. Harry next to him doesn’t even open his eyes, just buries his face in the pillows; he must have recognised Roxy’s ringtone on Eggsy’s phone.   
Which is just what causes Eggsy to get up as quickly as he can, because it’s Roxy and because he knows that his very best friend is going to be a mother so very soon.

He finds his phone on the floor, flashing blue and white, but when he picks up it’s not Roxy’s voice greeting him, but Haz’, breathless and awed and Eggsy knows what has happened before the other has said more than his name.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Harry is sixty-one, and it’s just past six when they arrive at the hospital. He must have broken every single speed limit on the way there, but it’s worth it when they step into Roxy’s room, find her propped up on three pillows, her hair damp with sweat but a blissful smile on her lips, two tiny bundles in her arms.   
Haz is right behind her, petting her hair, whispering something, but he looks up when Harry closes the door behind them.   
“Mornin’”, Eggsy greets, suddenly unsure what to say, what to do, especially when a woman with Roxy’s face and auburn hair looks up, eyes narrowing as if she was trying to figure out how to get rid of him without disturbing her daughter too much. “How did it- is everything alright?”

There is no answer for a second, but then Roxy looks up from her daughter’s, her son’s face, tears brimming in her eyes.   
“Eggsy”, she breathes out, and Eggsy can’t help but take a step forward, then another. “They’re perfect, oh my God, they’re so perfect.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Roxy is thirty-six, lets him hold little Edward once her arms have gone too tired, the adrenaline has started ebbing off.   
And she was right, he’s as perfect as he could be, large brown eyes and a tiny little button nose, little hands that grab at Eggsy’s fingers lazily. Harry is standing right behind him, a hand on Eggsy’s hips and although he knows that the other probably would need the hours of sleep he is losing, Eggsy can’t help but be grateful that Harry has come along.  
“Isn’t he beautiful?”, he asks softly, so he won’t disturb Roxy, who seems to be nodding off, and Harry squeezes his hip before nodding.   
“He is.”

There are a few moments that pass with Eggsy just watching little Teddy, then he mutters, without thinking, “Sometimes I wish we could have children.”  
And Harry sighs, presses a kiss to his temple and answers, “I know, Eggsy. I know.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and they leave Roxy and Haz and their families to themselves after an hour or two, with the promise to come visit as soon as they are back home. Harry never stops touching him, not for a second, and Eggsy just hopes he’s not still thinking about how he took this away from him.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Harry is sixty-one, pulls out his chair so Eggsy can sit down, just like a proper gentleman. The other kisses the top of his head, lingers just a little before he joins him, smiling softly and reaching out to take Eggsy’s hand the second he can.   
His own is warm and so much softer than it used to be, the callouses on his fingertips almost disappeared since Harry doesn’t have to handle guns anymore, at least not on a weekly basis.   
“So…”, Eggsy starts, drags his own, terribly calloused thumb over the other’s knuckles. “Happy seven years, then?”  
Harry smiles, and it feels like a caress, suddenly leaving Eggsy breathless with just how much all of this means to him. “The happiest.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five, stuffs penne into his mouth that are _insanely_ good, and asks, “But can’t ya tell me now, Harry? Like, as a present. For our anniversary.”  
“As far as I remember I got you a very expensive, very ridiculous pair of trainers, a new second controller for Daisy’s PlayStation, so you’ll stop whining about having ruined yours and that dildo with the remote control”, Harry answers with a raised eyebrow, takes a sip of his wine, which leaves Eggsy thinking about sucking the taste off his lips. “And what is it you want me to tell you anyway? What I am planning on doing to you once we get back home?”  
“Well… that too. But wasn’t what I was talkin’ about, I meant how ya fell in love with me. Obviously.”

“Ah, that…” Harry smiles, cuts off a piece of his Saltimbocca alla romana, and Eggsy is certain which answer he’ll get –the same one he always gets. “If you insist. But I’m afraid that after all this build-up you’ll be rather disappointed.”  
“Nah.” Eggsy sits forward, penne suddenly forgotten, because _this_ is important. “I won’t be. Tell me.”  
“Alright then.” Harry sits back, takes another sip of wine. “Back when you had that mission in Bursa, do you remember? You sent all these pictures, all these texts, and all the time you were there, even if it was, what? A week? Maybe two? Anyway, I spent the whole time hoping you had fun, and amazed at how happy you looked on every photo I saw, because I had turned you down, because you had been through so much and I knew that it would have to weigh on you still. But there you were, smiling and talking about the mosaics and the people and the food you had.”  
Harry smiles, like he’s reminiscing, and maybe he is; Eggsy definitely can see the city they both fell in love with in front of his inner eye.

“Then you came back and I couldn’t see you, at least not right away, and I spent the whole day looking forward to our dinner. And then you were standing in front of my door, another awful bottle of wine in your hand and the brightest smile on your lips and I just knew somehow. I didn’t really realise what it meant for quite some time, and I definitely didn’t know what to do about it for far too long, but that was it for me.”  
Harry looks at him fondly, and Eggsy remembers it, even if only dimly, and after so much time, it’s amazing to finally be able to put a time and a date to the most important moment of his life.

“Really?”, he asks, although he knows that Harry would never lie about something like this; the other nods, and it’s so mundane and yet so fitting, so sweet.   
“That’s so… anticlimactic, to be honest”, he admits, with a bright, impossibly happy smile. “But it’s also really, really cute.”  
“I told you it’d be disappointing, didn’t I?”  
“You did. But it wasn’t, it really, really wasn’t.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Roxy is thirty-six, lies on the couch with little Emma pillowed on her stomach – sitting still hurts, apparently, even after almost four weeks.   
“So…”, Eggsy starts, brushing his fingertips over a tiny, socked foot. “Are ya thinkin’ about getting married? Like, now that ya can fit into a proper dress again. Ya could have one o’ those fancy christening-wedding parties, maybe.”  
“Not really, to be honest”, Roxy answers slowly, like it’s nothing she has really considered about before. “We haven’t really talked about it much, but Harry’s not really big on marriage or all those official things. The twins will keep my name too.”  
“Really?”, Eggsy looks up from Emma’s sleeping form, brow furrowed a little. “That’s… a surprise, to be honest. I would’ve thought he’d be all for that.”

“Me too. But it came up one time and he just said something about antiquated concepts and whatnot. So no marriage for me, I guess.”  
“D’ya mind it?”  
“Not at all.” Roxy shrugs as well as she can, looking absolutely unconcerned. “I mean, I would have said yes if he had asked, because I love him and I want to spend the rest of our lives together, but I don’t need anything official. It wouldn’t change anything after all, would it?”  
“I suppose not”, Eggsy admits, and yet it feels a bit like telling a lie.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and realises that, while Roxy doesn’t mind never getting married, he might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will probably be a biiiiiit late, because uni and work are kicking my arse right now, so I hope tiny little babies and anniversaries (and maybe proposals that will follow soon, who knows?) will soften the blow a little bit ♥


	14. Chapter 14

Eggsy is thirty-five and the priest asks Roxy, “What name do you give your child?”  
There’s an almost smug smile on Roxy’s lips, one which Eggsy doesn’t understand for a few seconds, until she answers, “Edward Gary Frederic.”  
Truth be told, it's a terrible, terrible name – one which Eggsy most likely would have advised against – and yet it still makes him gape at Roxy, sight suddenly blurring, because it’s one thing to be Teddy’s godfather, but this -  
This is something different, a way to be part of Edward’s life he never would have imagined and more than he thinks he could ever deserve. He looks down onto the bundle in his best friend’s arms, one tiny hand balled to a fist, the other one relaxed, his dark eyes wide, as if he was already trying to take everything in.

Roxy looks over at him, waiting, and Eggsy smiles, puts a hand on her arm because he cannot hug her, at least not now.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Roxy shrugs as they exit the church, Haz chatting with his sister Irene next to them. “Well, what could be better than to name him after the man who saved the world?”  
“You know damn well that you could’ve named him Albert instead when it’s about that. Or Harry. Even Archibald, which would make Friedrich sound lovely instead.”  
“Sure. But no Archibald, not even a Harry, and I mean neither, got his mum pickles in the middle of the night and watched Bridget Jones with her eight times. Twice in one day. So if any guy in the world deserves to have his name in there, it’s you.”

And there’s hardly anything Eggsy can say against that, so he doesn’t, just reaches up to squeeze Roxy’s arm; he’ll hug her later, once they have sat down and someone else is holding little Emma, who is sucking on the hem of Roxy’s scarf, oblivious to the world around her.   
“Thanks”, Eggsy says instead, not more and not less, because he knows that Roxy knows the rest. There’s a smile on his lips that’s so wide he can hear it in his own voice, Roxy answers with a grin of her own. “I hope he’ll do so much better than me. At everything but finding the right friends.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five, almost doesn’t hear what Roxy says; he’s too focussed on little Edward’s fingers curling around his. They never talked about it, and yet it had been clear from the very start that Haz’s sister would be Emma’s godmother and Eggsy would be there for Edward – it had been love at first sight for both of them.  
“…I said, and now I think Eggsy might want to say some words”, she repeats and Eggsy looks up, at least has the decency to blush a little, especially when he catches the eye of Roxy’s mum, who still looks less than impressed to have him be a part of her grandchildren’s life.   
“Um, sure…”

They’re in a restaurant that still feels like it’s too fancy for him, even after being treated to lunches like this for almost a decade, but Eggsy gets up anywhere, careful not to untangle his fingers from Teddy’s hold.   
“Well…”, he starts, tries to reel in his accent, at least while Lorraine Morton is watching. “When Roxy asked me about doing this for her – or rather, for little Edward here – I actually thought she was kidding. I’m not really the perfect choice for a godparent, I know that, and at first I was so scared that I’d fuck up somehow, but now that he’s here… well, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”  
He looks down at Teddy in his arms, then Roxy, who’s bouncing Emma on her knee, gives her a smile, still grateful. “I might still fuck up, but not because I’m not trying and definitely not because I don’t absolutely adore this little worm here. So I propose a toast to little Edward here, to his health and his wellbeing and to him having everything he’ll ever want in life. To Teddy!”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Harry is sixty-one when they leave the happy family hand in hand. The air is crisp and cool, and although they could take a cab, they don’t, even if their pace is slower than usual – it’s Harry’s knee again, which acts up ever so often. Not that the other would ever say a word about it, Eggsy just knows.  
“So, this was nice, wasn’t it?”, Eggsy asks, because it was and because he knows that Harry just came along because Eggsy asked him to. He and Roxy get along well, but they’re not so close Harry would ever have thought about going to her children’s christening. “Well, even if I’m pretty sure that Roxy’s mum still at least low-key wants to slap me.”  
“I’m not sure if it’s that low-key, my heart. I think she’s rather obvious about it.”  
“Aw. And I thought we were getting better.”

“Not too much, I’m afraid.” Harry squeezes his hand, soft fingers around Eggsy’s calloused ones, makes him look over and smile at the other man. There’s a kind of softness about him these days, ever since they came back from the hospital,from Roxy’s radiant smile and Haz’ silent pride; Eggsy knows what it is that weighs so terribly on Harry, his Harry, and he’d know what to say, but doesn’t, because he doesn’t know if the other man wants him to.   
“Ah well, we still have time, right? I mean, now with the twins here I’m sure we’ll be seein’ more o’ them.”

“I’m certain we will.” Harry’s voice sounds almost wistful, he squeezes Eggsy’s hand like he’s about to let go, but doesn’t, must have decided otherwise in the last second. “Do you- and I won’t ask again, I promise you, Eggsy, but do you regret it? Not having children? After you’ve seen Roxy go through all of it.”  
It’s a question he has asked himself before, a couple of times, and it’s more than that still, it’s a myriad of question all rolled into one. It’s _Are you certain this was the right choice?_ , it’s _Do you want a way out?,_ it’s _Should I try so I can keep you here?_ , but most of all it’s _Are you happy?_ , and Eggsy could just tell Harry he wouldn’t change a thing, because he believes the other, knows that he won’t ask again.   
But it would be the easy way out, and neither of them have ever been easy, so Eggsy doesn’t.   
“I do”, he says instead, sees Harry’s face fall, not heartbroken, but resigned, like he expected this at least in some way for a long, long time. It hurts, and Eggsy squeezes the other’s hand tightly. “More so now that I’ve Teddy and little Emma, but Harry. Harry, I don’t regret this. I’ve given things up to be with ya, but I knew I’d have to do that from the start and I’ve never regretted it, ‘cause it was the right choice. I regret that we didn’t somehow meet in a way that’d make it possible for us to have kids, but I’ve never regretted us.”

He takes the next way so they drift closer together, hands caught between them as their shoulders brush, and although Harry isn’t looking at him, Eggsy knows that he’s smiling.   
“I’d give up so much more than this to be with ya too”, he adds, and Harry’s fingers tighten around his again, and Eggsy wonders if he should tell Harry that it’s moments like this that make him so incredibly sure that they’ll last for a lifetime.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Harry is sixty-one and they make love that night, there’s no other word for it, even if Eggsy desperately searches for one.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and it might be because of all the talk of children and families and all the pictures Roxy sends of her twins that he even thinks of all the photo albums Harry has stored away. They have never talked too much of Harry’s family – he knows the basics, but that’s about it. It has never seemed important, not after Harry had told him about his parents being dead, that there are no siblings, and while Eggsy knows that he would have listened to every and any story the other would have wanted to tell, Harry never seemed overly eager to do so.

But now, Eggsy looks through the bookshelves in the living room, pulls out album after album, some which he knows, like the one with pictures of Harry’s time as a Kingsman recruit, some which he has never seen before. There are five in total, bound in brown and black leather, and Eggsy takes them back to bed with him, a tumbler of the whiskey Merlin gave Harry last Christmas next to him as he snuggles into the covers and tries to find his Harry in the young, unfamiliar faces.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and puts a photo album down next to Harry’s cup of tea, careful not to knock it over. It’s still opened at the page Eggsy looked at for the longest time, compiled of three pictures, two of which are fairly uninteresting – a portrait of Harry at the age of nine, maybe ten, and another one of his parents at the age of Eggsy now – but the third one… Harry’s on it, of course, so are his parents, but standing next to Harry’s mother is a little blonde girl, freckles on her nose and a flower tucked behind her ear.  
“So…”, he starts, not entirely sure how to ask what he is thinking. His fingers are fluttering in between the pages, smoothing down the frayed edges of one of the pictures, and Harry looks up from the faded faces to Eggsy. “So, who’s this, then?”

“I assume you don’t mean my mother or father”, Harry replies, but doesn’t wait until Eggsy has shaken his head before he continues. “That would be Eleanor, my cousin. We used to be very close when we were younger.”  
“A cousin?” Eggsy plops down next to Harry, resting his head on one hand while he watches his lover. “Never mentioned her before, did ya?”  
“I don’t think I did, no. We didn’t really part on good terms the last time we spoke.”  
“How so?”  
“You’re awfully curious today, aren’t you?”

Harry is smiling, so Eggsy smiles back, nudges the album closer to the other so he can look at the pictures properly, maybe to spark a memory or two.   
“Well yeah. So?”  
“It was… oh, it was an awful thing, really. I told you about my aunt, didn’t I?”  
“The one you liked so much? Like… ya mum’s older sister, was it?”  
“Exactly.” Harry sighs, takes off his glasses to rub a hand across his eyes, and almost, just almost, Eggsy regrets asking, because it does seem like a topic Harry would rather have avoided talking about forever. “Aunt Violet. In many ways she was more a mother to me than my own, which might have had to do with her leaving behind the family fortune and all the responsibilities that came with it, so she could focus on her family, and me, instead. And she had a daughter, Eleanor, who I spent most summers with. We got along splendidly, and I wished more than once that I was Violet’s son instead of my own mother’s. We drifted apart a bit as we grew older, as it is normal – I went to a private school in Switzerland, Eleanor stayed in England – but we always kept in touch.”

Harry sighs, and Eggsy reaches over, takes his hand to hold it, because it seems like the other needs the comfort, even if it’s just a little amount that Eggsy can offer, especially for a wound that was caused such a long time ago.   
“Until I was twenty-five. Eleanor and her mother had fallen out a long time ago, back when Ellie was nineteen, and she went to India for two years to find herself, while I was tending to her broken-hearted mother and my cousin at the same time. And then I got sent to Sri Lanka for a mission, one of the worse kind. Months of being undercover to gather information, a whole new identity I had to study, to _live_ … it went well, but when I got back, Violet was in the hospital in a coma after two strokes, only kept alive by machinery.

“And right by her side was Eleanor, who hadn’t tried to contact me, and who, after not having seen her mother for five years, told me she wanted to switch off the machines and let Violet die. We had a fight, a horrible one, and – well, the gist of it is that I told her she was only after her mother’s money and she accused me of having been Violet’s favourite and always having tried to separate her mother and me.  
“It was dreadful, all of it, and in hindsight I know that Eleanor was right, that I would have wanted the same thing for me in her mother’s case and that I still do, but I only realised that far too late.”  
Harry gives him a wry smile and Eggsy only realises a second too late that he is holding onto the other’s hand too tightly; he loosens his grip, but doesn’t let go, instead raises Harry’s hand to his lips, kisses the knuckles.

“Did ya ever talk after that? Make up?”  
“We only met again twice after that fright, once at Violet’s funeral two weeks later and once at my mother’s, but we never did more than exchange glances.”  
Harry’s fingers curl around his own and Eggsy resists the urge to throw his arms around the other, pull him close – he looks like he might need it and yet it might be better for Harry to get everything out at once, at least if Eggsy wants to hear the whole story.   
“But ya not angry anymore, are ya? Why never try to make up now?” Eggsy risks another glance at the picture, tries to imagine how Eleanor would look now, about the same age as Harry, still pretty but distinguished, maybe a psychiatrist, a doctor. “Ya still care, don’t ya?”

“I do. Well, not like I used to, obviously, but enough that I still have Merlin check up on her from time to time, just to make sure she’s alright. But when it comes to reconciling… well. For some things, there just comes the time when it’s well and truly too late.”  
“And it’s too late for this?”  
The first reply Eggsy gets is a sad smile, then Harry squeezes his fingers, rubs a circle across the back of his palm, then the other says, “Yes, definitely for this.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and is certain that it isn’t too late. How could it be?  
They won’t get back the years they have lost, but might at least be able to leave the guilt behind, to make some new, better memories in the time that is still to come. Because Harry still cares, and still suffers and Eggsy wants to do everything to make it better.

He’ll talk to Merlin the next time he’s at HQ, Eggsy decides while he watches Harry move around the kitchen to prepare them both lunch. Not even just for their sake, not just for Harry’s, but his own as well, because Eggsy is far too curious for his own good, wants to meet this woman who had such an impact on Harry’s life.   
Merlin has to know at least the basics about her, her full name and where she lives, what she does, if she’s got children, if she’s married, if she still sometimes thinks about her cousin and wishes she could go back in time to prevent them from falling apart.

And it’s a thought that lasts only for a second, maybe not even that long, but still shakes Eggsy’s world to its core: _And maybe she’ll be at our wedding._  
Where it comes from, he doesn’t know, because yes, he has thought about it from time to time these last weeks, but never expected himself to be so serious about it.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and finds Merlin in his office, a cup of coffee on the desk and an excited Elliot in front of it.   
“-and that would mean we could probably make the photographic plate a lot smaller, which means we might be able to fit the whole thing into a watch. Make the face hinged and we could keep up the whole façade too.”  
“I’ve no fuckin’ clue what ya just said but it sounded impressive as hell”, Eggsy butts in and Elliot turns around with a grin, wants to answer, but Merlin beats him to it.

“It definitely was. Well done, Elyan, ask Morgause to help you and then get on it.” Elliot nods, claps his hand on Eggsy’s shoulder as both a hello and a goodbye and leaves them, which Eggsy is glad for, at least today. What he has to ask of the older man is rather private after all.  
Merlin seems to sense it, because he waits until the door has fallen closed behind Elliot before he speaks again. “What can I do for you, Eggsy? You haven’t by any chance gotten Harry to reconsider the whole affair with Mr. Crawley, did you? Because he keeps pestering me and it’s getting more than just annoying.”  
“Uh, no, sorry.” The whole truth is that he didn’t even try, knowing that Harry won’t budge, even if he offers sweet words, massages and blowjobs under the other’s desk, but that is something Merlin doesn’t have to know. “It’s something different, really different, to be honest. Ya see, Harry has told me about that cousin of his, Eleanor? The one he isn’t talkin’ to anymore and I thought that maybe ya could help me track her down?”

“You want me to give you the address of a woman who Harry hasn’t spoken to in decades so you can go and try to resolve a feud that has been going for longer than you have been alive?”, Merlin asks and put like tha,t it sounds ridiculous; Eggsy nods anyway.   
“Please?”  
“Absolutely. Give me a second.” Merlin turns around, leaving Eggsy gaping at him – he expected this to be difficult, has made a whole list of reasons why this is a good idea before coming here, if he needed to convince Merlin.   
“Yeah? I mean, thanks but… that was easy.”  
“I’ve been waiting for someone to fix this mess for years now, Eggsy.” Merlin is sorting through some papers in his desk, not looking at him, but that’s alright. “ _Years_. And you might just be the person who’s able to, because God knows that Harry has neither listened to me nor to Elfie.”  
“You’ve tried it before?”

“Not really.” Merlin turns again, looks up at Eggsy as he hands him a piece of paper. “I wanted to, but Harry made it very clear that he didn’t want anyone to meddle in his affairs. But he didn’t forbid you to meddle, so my conscience is clear.”  
“Is it now?” Eggsy grins and Merlin raises an eyebrow, his lips quirked into a little smile.   
“Absolutely. Now, this is the address, her name is Eleanor Archer and I swear to God, if you manage to get her and Harry talking again, I’ll make sure you get the best missions of all of them for the next six months.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Harry is sixty-one, wakes up slowly with every kiss Eggsy presses to his cheeks, his forehead. He should let him sleep, Eggsy knows that, but it’s impossible to do so when he spent the last eight days in Paris, pretending to be an art dealer looking for old Byzantine paintings, no matter if required legally or not.   
They’ve texted, of course, spoke over the phone a few times, but it never seems enough when he can’t look at Harry while they talk, can’t hold his hand, can’t kiss him goodnight. And it’s the same for Harry, so he doesn’t feel too bad when the other blinks up at him sleepily, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“You’re back”, Harry mutters and Eggsy grins, plops down onto the mattress next to him, their hands finding each other, fingers intertwining. “And earlier than expected too.”  
“Yeah.” Eggsy lets himself be pulled down when Harry reaches out, settles on the other’s chest, even if he’s still in the suit he wore for the last two and a half days, hasn’t washed his hair in just as long. “Couldn’t keep ya waiting even longer, could I?”  
“Absolutely not.”   
Harry winds his arms around him properly, pulls and shifts until Eggsy’s face is tucked into the crook of his neck, body curled up next to Harry. Sometimes, it’s still a marvel to Eggsy how easily they fit together, how moving, breathing in synch has become second nature.

“Missed me, then?”, he asks, tension seeping out of his tired limbs, leaving him boneless. It’s been years since he has learnt to make as much of the few hours of rest he gets during missions, but although he can fall asleep in any position, any situation, he never feels as relaxed as he does in Harry’s arms.   
“Always, don’t you know that?”   
And Eggsy smiles against Harry’s neck, cuddles closer if that is possible. “I do.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five, Jamal talking to him about his little sister’s wedding over the telephone when Harry comes down the stairs. He can’t have noticed Eggsy there, because he takes every step with a little more caution, a little bit more slowly than he would if Eggsy was right behind him.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and his heart is racing, every beat feeling like a punch to the chest. He has rung the doorbell rung about fifteen seconds ago, and Merlin had assured him that Eleanor would be home, but that hardly makes it better. What also doesn’t help is that, although he knows that if everything works out, Harry will be much happier for it, and if it doesn’t, he never has to know, Eggsy still feels guilty for going behind the other’s back like this.   
Harry thinks he’s running some errand for Merlin, and it’s the first time since that terrible, terrible year that followed his last mission in India that Eggsy has lied about where he is, what he is up to.

But there’s no time to reconsider, not now, because there are footsteps approaching and Eggsy hardly has the chance to take a deep breath before the door opens, revealing a woman around Harry’s age with short, light brown hair and a pair of glasses perched on her nose, her brow furrowing as she looks at Eggsy.   
She doesn’t look a thing like Harry and Eggsy is glad for it.   
“Can I help you?”, Eleanor asks and crosses her arms, making Eggsy wonder what she thinks he is here for. It can’t be anything good.

“Yeah, to be honest. I’m not here to sell you anything, don’t worry.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but it falls flat, and Eggsy feels his own smile fade as Eleanor looks at him with a blank expression. “My name is Eggsy Unwin.”  
He holds out his hand and at least Eleanor takes it, even if she doesn’t ask him to come inside, even if she still doesn’t look any closer to friendly.   
“Eleanor Archer”, she offers, and it’s a start, if nothing more.   
“I’m not actually here for my sake, in fact.” Eggsy inches closer, just enough so he’ll be able to put a foot in the door in case Eleanor decides to close it in his face; she and Harry didn’t part on good terms after all. “But for my boyfriend’s. Your cousin, Harry.”

Going by Eleanor’s behaviour, Eggsy expects something between polite refusal and icy dismissal, hopefully so civil that he can reason with her, but Eleanor reacts differently – her mouth drops open a fraction, the hand she had kept loosely around the doorknob tightens and Eggsy knows he has won before she has said a thing.   
“Harry?”, she repeats, and he nods, gives her all the time she needs. “Good God, I haven’t seen him for decades. Nothing has happened to him, has it?”  
“Oh no, don’t worry”, Eggsy tries it with a smile again, doesn’t get one in return.   
“Well, why didn’t he come himself then?”   
“Uh, you see…” Eleanor looks at him expectantly and Eggsy feels himself reminded of his mother’s gaze when she knew that he wouldn’t have a convincing explanation for something. “He doesn’t really know I’m here. But could we maybe discuss this inside?”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and sits down in a kitchen he has never seen before, Eleanor in front of him, hovering, like she doesn’t quite know if she wants to join him. She does, though (without offering him a drink, something Eggsy knows Harry would have scolded him for already), sits down with her arms folded in front of her chest.   
“So?”, she prompts and Eggsy sits up straighter, reminds himself that the worst thing that could happen is that nothing will change.   
“Uh, well”, he starts awkwardly as he feels, all the training he received forgotten when it comes to something so personal. “Some weeks ago, I looked through the old photo albums Harry has lying around and there was this pic- this picture of you two and his parents- “ Eggsy forces himself to slow down; it’s harder to remember to speak properly when he is talking too fast, “- and I asked after you. He told me – well, not everything, I’m sure, but enough.”

“So you, what? Looked up my address and thought you could fix everything in an afternoon?” Eleanor raises an eyebrow, as sarcastic as they get, and maybe there’s a hint of Harry in the glance she gives him, just a touch of the man he loves.   
“No, of course not. I just…” Eggsy takes a deep breath, because he can feel that if he says something wrong now, Eleanor will think him a stupid boy toy her cousin is keeping, someone who she can ask to leave and won’t have to think about again. And while he knows that the worst that can happen is nothing, Eggsy wants this to work, not just for Harry, but for himself as well. Even if Eleanor doesn’t seem like she is interested in becoming too friendly, every part of Harry’s past he can find, he’ll treasure. “Okay. The thing is, I want to ask Harry to marry me. And I think he’ll say yes, I’m pretty sure he will, and I want his family to be there, at least what is still left of it, when we get married. If we do.”

He’s looking at his hands, not at Eleanor anymore, because this is private, intimate, something he hasn’t even told Roxy about before, because saying it out-loud seemed too big a step, still kind of does. “I’m not saying asking you to forget anything, just that you talk to him. Harry thinks that it’s too late, but I don’t agree. It’s never too late to set something right again.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and leaves Eleanor back in the kitchen, shows himself out. He might have changed something, he isn’t sure, but he feels better anyway, just knowing that he has tried.

 

Eggsy is thirty-five and Harry is sixty-one, makes a soft, surprised sound when Eggsy wraps his arms around him, squeezes a bit harder than he usually does.   
“Is everything alright?”, Harry asks, puts a hand on Eggsy’s hip and the other one on the back of his head, running soft fingertips through the short hair there.   
“Yeah”, Eggsy breathes out against Harry’s shoulder, nuzzles the other there and lets his eyes slip shut. It’s the strangest thing, because the second he spoke to Eleanor about proposing it got real, it became more than just an idea, a plan, something he is going to do, that is going to happen. And it’s scary, it’s _terrifying_ , but still so good. “Never been better.”

 

Eggsy turns thirty-six in Malaysia, looks at a simple gold ring through the window of a little goldsmith store. It’s not perfect, not the one he wants, and yet it might be a good start to at least know what he doesn’t want.   
He’ll find the right rings somewhere else.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Roxy is thirty-seven, forgets about both the bottles she is heating up for the twins. “Propose?”  
“Yeah?” Eggsy doesn’t mean for the confirmation to sound like a question, but it does anyway. “I’ve been thinkin’ about it some time now. Months, at least. It just seems like... I don’t know. The natural progression of things. Something that was meant to happen at some point.”  
Roxy hums, plucks the bottles from the pot she’s been using to heat them up and wipes them dry with the hem of her jumper, something that would have been unthinkable a few months ago – vain, gorgeous Roxy soiling her cashmere jumper on purpose. It’s quite endearing.   
“Really?”, she asks, turns around and hands Eggsy one of the bottles; by now it’s an unspoken rule that whenever Eggsy is around, he helps out as much as he can. “Not that I think it’s a bad idea, I don’t, I just always expected that Harry would be the one to propose, not the other way around.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have minded that, but y’know, if he doesn’t, then…” Eggsy shrugs, and really, it’s not much of a problem, it’s one of the things he always liked about their relationship: they are equal, even if it took some time to get there.  
“Aw, but it would have been too cute, really. Him on his knees and you swooning and blushing and fanning yourself.”  
“Oi!” Eggsy pretends to be a lot more offended than he is, throws Roxy a look. “I would not have fanned myself.”  
“But you would have swooned?”  
“…well, yeah. Probably.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-one, looks like the first time they have met twelve years ago when he waits for Eggsy outside of Roxy’s house that evening. It’s raining, pouring really, and although Eggsy told him not to come three times, Harry insisted, and right now, with Harry standing outside under his umbrella, waiting for him like it seems Harry has done so very often, Eggsy is happy for how stubborn his lover is.   
“Hello, love”, he greets, gets up on his tiptoes so he can kiss Harry gently, tangling a hand in his grey hair for a moment, then a moment longer. “Thanks for comin’. Roxy says hi and Teddy and Emma definitely made a happy sound when I mentioned ya name.”  
“Next time, tell them I made a happy sound too when I heard about it.” Harry smiles, reaches up to catch Eggsy’s hand and tangle their fingers together, squeezing. “But for now, I’ll be just happy to get you back home.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-one, Merlin is fifty-nine and pops by for dinner with a bottle of wine in one, and his tablet in the other hand. Harry has made some pasta, simple but still delicious, and Elfie joins them after the first glass of wine, complaining about the quality of the WiFi in her hotel in Trikala.

“Well, ya could still take a plane and just join us like a normal person”, Eggsy suggests around a mouthful of pasta, winks at her, although he knows that Elfie might not see it, if her connection is really as bad as she suggested. “It’s been, what, seven months since ya last were here? ‘Bout time ya take some pity on old Archie here.”  
Merlin kicks him under the table, like he always does when Eggsy uses his given name, but Elfie laughs, and that makes it worth it; although they haven’t met very often, Eggsy adores her.   
“Would if I could, agoraki mou”, she replies, her accent a little bit stronger now that she’s been in Greece for such a long time. “But without me, I’m sure the whole Greek branch would just fall apart. I don’t know if my husband showed you the last videos, but Aphrodite is out of her fucking mind.”

“He hasn’t, but we’ll change that as soon as this is over”, Eggsy answers, ignores Merlin’s groan, knowing that it’s just for show; the older man does love a bit of gossip in between. “But I mean it, I give ya two more months, and if ya haven’t made it back to dreary England until then, I’ll come to fetch ya myself.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry turns sixty-two on a Wednesday. They don’t leave the bed until it is well past noon, kissing and cuddling and talking softly in between breaths.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and spends an afternoon with making as much of a plan as he possibly can. He hasn’t bought an engagement ring, but that’s because he doesn’t want to, has decided against it – he’s no Mr. Darcy and Harry is a lot of things, but no Lizzie Bennet. There won’t be any roses, no candles and no romantic music playing in the back- while Eggsy wants it to be perfect, what is considered perfect in rom-coms and soap operas isn’t perfect for them, _isn’t_ them. B

So instead, there will be dinner at _Orisini_ on their anniversary, there will be talking and laughing and delicious food and then, right at the end, there will be a question.   
An answer.   
Hopefully amazing post-engagement sex.   
And later, far, far later, a wedding.   


Eggsy is thirty-six and comes home from a mission in Madrid to find Harry in his office, several stacks of paperwork on his desk and at least three cups of tea in between them.   
“What’s up?”, he greets with a little wave and a grin; it was a good mission, taking out a minor spy ring, which proved not too difficult and also to be one of the few times that Eggsy didn’t just have time to have a good night’s sleep before leaving Madrid, but also to shower and have breakfast. “Missed me?  
Usually, Harry responds to that with a smile and a gesture to come closer, but not today; today Harry looks at him with an expression Eggsy can’t read, even after all this time.

“Eggsy”, the older man mutters, pushes his glasses up higher up the bridge of his nose. “Care to tell me why my cousin, who I haven’t spoken to for decades, just called me and asked after my boyfriend?”  
“Um…” Although Harry hasn’t offered him a seat, Eggsy plops down on one of the chairs anyway, has the decency to at least sound a little bit embarrassed. “Really good instincts and a lucky coincidence?”  
“ _Eggsy_.”  
“Alright, alright.” Eggsy sits back, holds up his hands in surrender. “I kind of… well, I went to visit her. Eleanor. Told her that maybe it was time to leave all that crap behind you, make up. It wasn’t much, just a suggestion, really. Glad she took it though.”

“Eggsy…” Harry’s voice sounds fond, if exasperated; he pushes a hand through his hair, then sighs. “I somehow knew that would happen the second I told you about it. Thank you, I know you meant well… although I do remember explicitly telling you to let it be.”  
“Well yeah, but ya know me, don’t ya? I couldn’t do that.” He gets up with just a hint of a smirk, walks around the desk to straddle Harry on his chair, one of the few pleasures he doesn’t allow himself to indulge in a lot. His arms wind themselves around Harry’s neck and although the older man gives him another exasperated look, he puts his hands on Eggsy’s hips.   
“But what did she say though?”, Eggsy adds after a second, just so he won’t give in to the temptation of kissing Harry.

“Not much.” Harry answers, and Eggsy wants to groan, but before he can, Harry gives in, adds, “But the most important part of it was that she wants to meet me for a cup of tea next week. To talk…and try to make things better. So it seems that your little plan has worked.”  
There is a smile on his lips and Eggsy gives in, kisses Harry, glad that it all worked out and that Harry doesn’t seem to mind that he went against his wishes, at least not too much.   
“So ya gonna go?”  
“Of course. It would be a shame to still hold a grudge, even after such a long time.”  
“Then why did you think Eleanor would?”, Eggsy pulls back a little, studying Harry’s face, who looks almost a little bit sheepish, like he expected that question.   
“I don’t know. I guess because I was scared that she wouldn’t think the same way.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-two, comes home a little later than expected, but with a pleased, easy smile on his lips. He looks younger, somehow, and Eggsy’s heart gives a little lurch.   
“How did it go?”, he asks before Harry has even taken off his coat, making the older man chuckle.   
“Nosy brat”, he scolds affectionately, making Eggsy roll his eyes, even if he decides against reminding Harry that he is far too old to be considered a brat by now. “But it did go well. Or rather, as well as could have been expected, awkward but with the both of us making an effort.”  
“So ya gonna meet up again?”, Eggsy asks, waits until Harry has turned back to him before he pecks his lips.   
“I think so, yes”, Harry answers, keeps his hands on Eggsy’s waist for a little longer. “It was good to see her again.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-two, calls him from the office while Eggsy is in Oslo, sounding distressed, worried, breathes, “Oh Eggsy, my heart, I’m so sorry, so very sorry.”  
“Harry? What’s wrong?” Eggsy is perched on a rooftop, fingers freezing and cheeks reddened by the Norwegian wind, but suddenly all thought of the woman he is here to kill is gone. If Harry sounds like this, something must have gone wrong.   
“Our anniversary. I won’t be in London for our anniversary, there’s a meeting I cannot miss in Tokyo.” Harry sounds like it’s the worst thing he could possibly say, and it makes Eggsy laugh, just because he is so horribly relieved; in his mind, he had already buried his mother, had gotten his friends out of jail.

“Oh babe, that’s okay”, he mutters, not daring to move too much, not even to speak too loudly, just in case his target comes by and he’ll miss the shot. “I mean, it’s shit, obviously, but we’ll make up for it. Maybe the week after? Have dinner and watch a movie, maybe that new adaption of Moby Dick you’ll be able to spend three hours complaining about afterwards.”  
“I do not complain, I merely point out what they did wrong.”  
“Which, essentially, is complaining.” Eggsy smiles, can’t help it, tries to picture Harry in his office, indignant expression on his face and his eyes still soft, still fond. “So, we’ve a date?”  
“Yes.” Now, Harry’s voice sounds like Eggsy imagined his eyes to look, and on a dirty rooftop in Oslo, Eggsy knows that yes, this is the man he wants to spend his life with.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and it’s just a few seconds later, after they have ended the call and he should be concentrating on shooting someone, when he realises something: They won’t be spending their anniversary together and Eggsy’s entire almost perfect plan is ruined.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-two, smiles at him across the table. They’re at Michelle’s house for lunch, something that still feels slightly strange, although his mum insists that she is fine with them being together. And while Eggsy almost believes her most of the time, there are still those glances she sometimes casts at them, like she would do much to fix this, which makes Eggsy think that she might be getting there, but she’s still not entirely alright with it.   
Now, though, there are no glances, not even awkward silences, because Daisy is talking, and although Eggsy is fairly certain that he heard half the things she’s saying before, he still listens to every word.

“…but Rajid is stupid anyway. On Thursday, he said that his uncle told him that God didn’t let two men get married, but I told him that it’s bulls- that that’s not true, ‘cause my big brother is married to another man.” She looks, sounds so pleased with herself, munching away on her Shepard’s pie, oblivious to Michelle’s widening eyes, to Eggsy tensing up next to her.   
“Daisy, darling”, Harry starts gently, obviously the only one who can think of something to say, even if for completely different reasons, and Daisy looks up from her plate, always so eager to listen to Harry. It reminds Eggsy of himself in almost too many ways.   
“You’re a little bit mistaken about that. Rajid is absolutely wrong, of course, God doesn’t mind anyone getting married to each other, as long as they care for each other enough, but your brother and I…” Harry looks at him, half a smile on his lips, one that looks a little bit melancholic, but so loving, one that makes Eggsy _hope_ all of a sudden. “We love each other, but we’re not married.”

Daisy’s brow furrows, and Eggsy’s heart is pounding, because this might be the best idea of his life, might be the worst. But they won’t get the proposal Eggsy wanted for them, and this moment seems as perfect as any other, because if Harry says yes, any moment will be.   
So Eggsy looks over at the man next to him, grey hair and wrinkles and smudged glasses, who might not be the best person Eggsy has ever known, but who is perfect for him, takes Harry’s hand to squeeze it and asks, “Well, but why not?”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-two; they leave quickly after that, just like Eggsy expected. His heart is still beating too fast, too hard, his mother’s shocked expression forever branded into his memory, and Harry hasn’t said yes, but hasn’t said no, either.   
The door falls shut behind them, and there’s nothing Eggsy can think of to say, so instead he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket, doesn’t quite look at Harry, who is right next to him, posture perfect, and his face unreadable up until a few seconds ago.

“Did you mean it?”, Harry asks after they have left Michelle’s house behind; Eggsy is surprised at how his voice sounds, almost too collected, like he is trying his best not to feel too many things at once. Eggsy knows the feeling.   
“I did. Wouldn’t have caused my mum the shock of her life if I didn’t, believe me.”   
A sound falls from Harry’s lips, one he hasn’t ever heard before, something in between bliss and desperation, enough to make Eggsy look up, find the same strange combination shining out of Harry’s eyes. He’s not used to this, to the other being out of his depth and neither is Harry, who looks at him with parted lips for a second, two, three.

“Are you quite certain that this is what you want?”, he finally asks, his voice carefully calm and so gentle it cuts deep into Eggsy’s heart with every word he speaks. “I’m past sixty, I won’t – I won’t be here forever.”  
“I know.” Eggsy’s eyes are burning, but he ignores them, grateful that his feet know the way home by now, take him there although he cannot spare a thought for them right now; this is the first time they have acknowledged Harry’s mortality and he hopes that it will be the last. “But as long as ya are, I want ya to be my husband.”  
Eggsy reaches out to take Harry’s hand, their fingers intertwining, and although he thinks he knows the answer, his breath has stopped altogether; no mission, no training in this world could ever have prepared him for this.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing, just the sound of their footsteps, wind making the leaves shake and shiver, and then, on the middle of the street on a Saturday afternoon, Harry squeezes his hand, says, “There is nothing I could ever have done to deserve you.”  
Says, “Yes. Oh God, yes, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sooooo sorry for the super long wait - uni and work both were worse than expected and at least two scenes of this were really, ridiculously hard to write.  
> (and I started with Dragon Age: Inquisition, which probably didn't help) 
> 
> So anyway, I hope that the proposals make up for it a bit and that you're all looking forward to what is to come (and surely rather easy to guess).   
> Lots of love, and let me know about any and all ideas, wishes and suggestions! ♥


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and kisses Harry like he has never kissed him before, passionate and sweet and above all, loving, because this little answer means that he’ll get what he wanted for more than a decade now – Harry Hart, for now and for the rest of their lives.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-two, their skin is still sticky with sweat and sex, their legs are tangled, and there is no place Eggsy would rather be.   
“I never even considered asking you”, Harry murmurs in a way that makes it sound like a secret, a confession; his fingers card through Eggsy’s hair gently, smoothing down the damp strands. “I thought about it, but I never would have asked.”  
“Why? Thought I’d say no?”  
“No, not because of that. I might doubt a lot of things, but I never doubted you.” Harry pauses for a second, and Eggsy presses closer, glad that Harry never thought he’d refuse him. “I guess it was more that I feared you say yes, but lack the enthusiasm. A yes for my sake, not yours.”

“Why’s that? I mean, I know we never talked about marriage before, but…”  
It’s hard to put into words just why it’s so confusing to Eggsy, but it is, maybe because deep down, he can’t even imagine not wanting this – a spouse, a nice place to live, a job he loves, that allows him to do good.   
“I don’t quite know”, Harry answers, sounding thoughtful, his fingers twisting a strand of Eggsy’s hair around his finger, pulling on it ever so slightly. It makes a shiver travel down Eggsy’s spine, makes him wonder if Harry could maybe get it up for another round. “It might have something to do with Roxy, since she never seemed to be interested in getting married and, as much as it pains me to admit it, I have grown quite out of touch with the youth, so I didn’t know if you didn’t share the sentiment.”  
It makes sense, and doesn’t matter at all in the end, so Eggsy just nods, rolls on top of Harry to press their lips together instead of answering.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and watches his fiancé across the table, unable to keep himself from smiling. It’s still difficult to believe this is real, even now when Harry looks like always, mussed up hair and dressed in an old, slightly tattered cardigan which Eggsy will peel off him later.  
“It’s really the logical thing to do too, isn’t it?”, he asks around a mouthful of toast and Harry looks up from his tablet, brow furrowed in confusion.  
“What is?”  
“Getting married. Like… if one of us ends up in a public hospital, the other will definitely be allowed to visit. Or… dunno, I guess there would be a widower’s pension, not that that will be required, like, ever.”

There’s a small smile playing on Harry’s lips when he reaches out to take Eggsy’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and somehow it feels a bit like looking at him for the very first time.   
“Absolutely”, Harry says, an eyebrow quirked; his thumb drags across Eggsy’s knuckles, leaving a trail of warmth on his skin. “There’s nothing better to stop unwanted attention than a wedding ring.”  
“Right, yeah.” Eggsy is grinning, his lips stretched so wide it’s almost painful, but he can’t stop it, doesn’t want to, either, because he’s too happy, too in love. “And also, well. I love ya.”  
Harry’s eyes soften and his fingers tighten just a fraction around Eggsy’s, as his smile widens as well, bright and loving and all Eggsy wants to see for the rest of his life. “Yes, my heart. That too.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six, says, “Guess who got himself a fiancé yesterday?”  
Roxy, who is thirty-seven, doesn’t say anything, just screeches into the phone.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six, at HQ for the first time in what feels forever when his phone rings. He picks it up without thinking, and regrets it just a moment later when it’s not Daisy, not Roxy on the other side of the line, but his mother.   
They haven’t spoken since that evening two days ago, although Michelle called at least half a dozen times, and Eggsy knows just what she wants to say, knows he doesn’t want to hear it.   
“Eggsy”, she greets, and he grits his jaw, takes a deep breath.

“Hey mum”, he still answers, leans back and lets his eyes drift shut. “How are ya?”  
“I’m fine, babe. Wanted to talk to ya about-“  
“Me an’ Harry.” Eggsy finishes her sentence for her, not even trying to sound less bitter than he is, less annoyed.  
“Yeah.” Michelle sighs, and Eggsy knows what expression she is wearing, concerned and yet a little bit disappointed, like he is still seven years old and she has to scold him for pulling some girl’s pigtails. “I know ya love him, babe, an’ I know he loves ya back, ya won’t hear me say otherwise, but babe, think about this. Marriage, that’s a whole new thing, that’s forever. An’ I know ya don’t care that he’s so much older than ya, but ya will, Eggsy. At some point, ya will wake up and look over to him, and he’ll be seventy years old while ya still young, and ya will wish there was a way ya could just walk away. An’ there will be, but not like this, not when ya two are married.”

It hurts, every word she says, because Eggsy has known that she wasn’t pleased, still not, even after the eight years Harry and he had been a couple, but this is different, because Michelle does not talk about possibilities, but like it is a given that, one day, Harry’s age will break them apart. Like there is no way they can last.  
“I’m going to say this once, mum, and just once”, he answers, slowly, every word icy with anger, with pain. “I can’t know if we’ll stay together forever, Harry an’ me, but neither can ya. But I know – and I mean _know_ , not just hope, not just really, really think so, I _know_ – that when I marry him, because I will, then I won’t wake up and decide to quit him just ‘cause I finally realise he’s old. Because ya know, mum, he is old already and I know it, and if I could change that somehow and give us thirty, forty more years together instead of the time we still have, I would, but I fuckin’ can’t. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t cherish every moment me an’ Harry have together and that I will start to live my, no, _our_ life waiting for the moment when I don’t love him no more.”

Eggsy is breathing heavily, his eyes still closed; there is nothing he wants more than to just hang up, never think of this again, but one of the things he has learnt the hard way is that in his line of work, it’s not a good idea to part without at least a few kinder words.   
“I still want ya to come to the wedding, whenever it’s gonna be, together with Daisy. I’ll send ya an invite as soon as everything is settled, but I swear to God, mum, if ya don’t stop sayin’ these things about me and my _fiancé_ , there’s gonna be a point where I’ll just stop listening to ya altogether.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and his mother calls twice on that day; he doesn’t pick up.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and spends the first night away from Harry since he proposed in a fancy hotel in Chile, sipping a subpar Martini. The barkeeper is a pretty woman around his own age, dark hair artfully pinned up and her lips painted red; when Eggsy orders another drink, she slides it across the counter with a napkin she scribbled her number on.   
It’s nice, a compliment Eggsy gladly takes, and yet, although he could just leave the napkin, or take it with him and never call, he pulls out a pen and writes _, Sorry, I’m engaged_.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six, asks Harry, who is sixty-two, “Babe, when d’ya want to get married anyway? Like, shouldn’t we set a date or something?”  
“Probably, yes.” Harry sounds amused, looks at Eggsy over the brim of his wine glass with one eyebrow raised, “I wanted to ask you about that anyway. I always thought I was rather partial to spring weddings, but I really don’t want to wait that long anymore, so if you don’t mind, I thought maybe sometime in September, or maybe October?”

Eggsy has never been partial to any kind of wedding, so he nods before Harry has even finished speaking, because the one thing he knows for certain is that he doesn’t want to wait longer than necessary. They have waited long enough already.   
“Sounds great.” He leans across the table, ignoring the edge of the table digging into his hip so he can kiss Harry on the cheek, then once again on the lips. “But to be honest, I just really don’t give a fuck when we get married as long as we do.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-two, and although he must look as composed and calm as always to Mr. James Crawley, who is sitting on the opposite side of the table, Eggsy knows that chances are he is mentally going through the list of all the ways he could kill the other.   
It’s kind of understandable – Crawley is a pompous arse, Eggsy is the first to admit that, handsome and rich and very, very aware of the fact – but Eggsy doesn’t quite get why Harry dislikes the man just so much, or rather, why he dislikes him more than the other pompous arses he has to deal with every day.  
“All I am saying is that you really should consider my offer, it might be the last time I make it”, Crawley says, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow like it’s him doing Kingsman a favour, not the other way around. “As I told your quartermaster before, I’m willing to double the sum. It’s the least I can do, after all I won’t miss the money, and I am sure you need it. After all, I am only trying to help… if you let me.”

“Your offer is most gracious and we will definitely consider it carefully, Mr. Crawley”, Harry answers, his tone just a hint too sharp, his smile just a little too forced, but Eggsy doesn’t think the other man notices it; he’s too wrapped up in his own world for that. “But the point still stands, there are no vacancies, at least not at the moment. But in case that changes, you will be the first to know.”  
He won’t be, Eggsy knows that the second the words have left Harry’s lips, but Crawley doesn’t get to answer; there is a knock at the door and Elliot steps inside before either of them has told him to, looking pale and worried, like he has been running to get here.

“Um, Arthur, sir”, he starts, breathing a bit too heavily to be believable. “There’s a problem we need your assistance with. Immediately.”  
“Of course.” Harry has gotten up before Elliot has even finished his sentence, looking over at Crawley for a moment. “If you’d excuse me, apparently there is some kind of emergency. I’ll be in touch.”  
And there is nothing the other can do but nod.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and finds Elliot in the kitchen a few minutes later, chatting with Thelma, their not-so-new Bors.   
“So, what was that about?”, he asks and Elliot doesn’t even try to look innocent, just laughs, takes a big gulp of coffee.   
“Well, before he went into the meeting, Arthur told me that, if he wasn’t out of there again within twenty minutes, he wanted me to barge in and make up some excuse so he could leave. And well, that’s what I did.” He sounds rather pleased with himself, and Eggsy can’t help but groan, because Jesus, Harry, really. “Merlin is going to have my ass for this, but still. Worth it.”  
“I dunno about that”, Eggsy sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “’Cause Merlin will have my arse too.”

“Ah, we’ll just be fucked together then.” Elliot grins and throws an arm over Eggsy’s shoulders and pulls him a little closer. “Also, by the way, who was that guy you were with?”  
“The blonde one? James Crawley, wants to pester Harry into giving him a job. Why?”  
Elliot shrugs, takes another drink. “Ah, nothing really. Just ‘cause I wouldn’t mind him having my ass instead of Merlin, if you know what I mean.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Albert sends him a text from Nowosibirsk to congratulate him on getting engaged, since the other has been spending the last four months undercover. It’s rather touching, since it’s a rather big risk Albert is taking, and also a little bit impressive; Eggsy didn’t know that there were so many innuendos to be made with only emojis.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and asks, “D’ya even know what kinda rings ya want?”  
They’re in the first of what Eggsy is sure will be a lot of jewellery stores, browsing through the displays, and at least Eggsy is overwhelmed by just how many different rings, pendants, bracelets there are for sale. Everything glitters and glimmers, and everything feels kind of wrong, not like them.   
“I don’t”, Harry admits, eyes skimming over a few gold bands, some thin and some far too thick. “I never expected to be in this situation, so I never prepared for it either. Do you have any preferences?”

Eggsy shrugs, wants to say that no, not really, but one of the salesgirls is faster than him, steps behind them with her heels clacking on the floor and her perfume making her presence easily known.   
“Good afternoon, how can I help you?”, she chirps, faintly reminding Eggsy of a girlfriend Jamal used to have. She almost looks like her too when he turns around, her hair dyed dark and her blush just a little too strong, too pink to look real.   
“We’re looking for rings”, he tells her anyway, because he doesn’t have to like her, just has to be civil. He gives her a smile anyway. “Wedding rings. Maybe ya could help us out, it’s the first time we ever went out looking.”

She stops mid-motion, her hand raised to the height of her shoulder, looks from Eggsy to Harry, a smile spreading across her face which Eggsy knows is bad news, even before she says anything.   
“Oh, that’s lovely”, she coos before Eggsy can stop her, can pull Harry away. “It’s so rare to see a father and son pair who gets along well enough to shop for wedding rings together these days.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-two, and needless to say, they do not buy their rings there.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and in the middle of another retcon mission, the third one in a row, when his phone beeps, flashing red and green.   
_Do you want to have the reception at Orsini?_ , the text Harry sent him reads, which is the worst possible timing and yet exactly the distraction Eggsy needs.  
_Great idea_ , he texts back after a quick look at the target, one Matteo Rinaldo. _Get them to make that risotto with shrimps, I love that almost as much as I love you._

Eggsy is thirty-six, comes home from a day he spent with paperwork to find Harry in the kitchen, apron tied around his waist. Whatever he is cooking, it smells heavenly, reminds Eggsy that it has been far too long since he has eaten.   
“Evenin’”, he greets, steps behind Harry to wrap his arms around the other’s waist, nuzzling Harry’s neck. “Smells great. What are ya making?”  
“Coq au vin. One of us left the bottle of red wine we opened last night outside yesterday evening, and I didn’t want it to spoil.” Harry sounds both fond and a little bit exasperated, and Eggsy knows just why – it’s at least the third bottle of wine that has almost or completely spoilt because of Eggsy these last months, and Harry loves his wine.

“I’m really sorry?”, he offers, kisses the side of Harry’s neck in apology, which seems to work, at least judging by how Harry leans back against him slightly, sighs.   
“It’s alright. After eight years, I really should have expected that.” Harry stirs one more time, then turns around so they are face to face, a small smile on his lips. “And I wanted to cook something special today anyway, so it was a good inspiration.”  
“Why’s that? I didn’t forget about something, did I?”  
“No, don’t worry.” Harry cards his fingers through the short hair on the back of Eggsy’s head, making a pleasant shiver run through him. “I just wanted to talk to you. About the wedding.”

Harry sounds a little too serious for Eggsy’s taste, making him nervous although Eggsy knows that there is no way Harry would change his mind now, not when the other has been just as excited about getting married as Eggsy himself. And yet…  
“What about the wedding? Didn’t get cold feet already, did ya?”  
“Oh no, definitely not.” Harry gives him a slightly wry smile, brushes his fingers along the collar of Eggsy’s shirt, just so touching skin. “It’s just – we never talked about how the wedding should be, and I wanted to ask if you would mind terribly if it wasn’t too big a deal. Not because I don’t want everyone to know, just because…”

Harry sighs, his fingers flitting over the skin of Eggsy’s neck almost nervously. “It’s tedious, planning these things, and in the end, it’ll lead to everything else being too important and the thing that’s really important, us getting married, is going to be lost somewhere along the way. And I don’t want that.”  
It’s only when Harry looks up at him that Eggsy realises the other has been avoiding making eye contact; he looks guilty, like he is asking too much from him, and it’s as adorable as it is unnecessary.   
“Of course that’s okay.” Eggsy can’t quite keep the smile off his face, even when he leans up to kiss Harry, keeping it sweet and short, because there will be time for more planning and longer, more passionate kisses later. “To be honest, that’s perfect. I don’t need any of that stuff, all I need is ya and me and someone to pronounce us a married couple.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-two, groans when he gets up from the floor. It’s bordering on a miracle that Eggsy even notices after the truly spectacular blowjob he just got, but he does, and his heart just aches a little bit when he pulls Harry onto the mattress with him, tries to kiss all of the pain away.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-two, spends three weeks in Puerto Rico without Eggsy. He doesn’t mope, whatever it is Roxy says, but he might just be a bit irritable.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Elfie pinches his cheek a little too roughly, a smile on her face that is so wide it seems to take over her whole face.   
“Oh, that I may live to see Harry Hart, eternal bachelor, getting married”, she warbles, sighs. “And then to a young man like you. What could be better than this?”  
“Not having to plan the wedding, to be honest.” Eggsy grins up at her, and Elfie just tuts, steps back to look at him. How she can be so energetic, look so fresh and rested when Eggsy knows she has been overseeing an important operation back in Athens before coming to London, he has no idea, but it’s a feat Elfie seems to pull off almost effortlessly.

“Is there so much to do?”, Elfie asks after a few seconds, puts an arm around his shoulders and pulls him with her, making their way through the corridors of HQ. Eggsy considers it for a second; ever since Harry and he have decided to keep things simple, a lot of planning has become obsolete, which is a blessing, but there still seems to be more than enough to do. There is cake to be sampled, since Daisy expects cake, new suits have to be made and a location has to be booked, invitations sent out… it’s worth it, and yet seems like a task without an end.  
“I dunno. Yeah.” He sighs, leans a bit closer to Elfie; it’s a relief to have her here, not just because he knows she’ll be a great source of support for Harry, but because Michelle won’t have anything to do with the wedding, and Elfie might just be a bit of a substitute. “It’s probably nothing compared to what other people go through, but for me an’ Harry, it’s a lot to think about. And every time we’ve get something done, something else pops up.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for”, Elfie tells him, reaches up to ruffle Eggsy’s hair. “To take care of you boys. Or at least, help you two a little bit.”  
“Ya a blessing”, Eggsy tells her, and Elfie chuckles, steers them into the kitchen and sits him down.   
“As are you, agoraki mou.” Elfie moves through the kitchen, gathering cups and plates, putting on the kettle, before setting a Tupperware box with baklava down in front of Eggsy. “For all of us.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and they have dinner together, Elfie and Merlin and Harry and him, in a Taiwanese restaurant Merlin has chosen. The staff is less than friendly, but the food is delicious and there’s enough wine to make Eggsy feel a little bit dizzy, affectionate enough to squeeze Harry’s thigh under the table.   
It makes the older man smile, put a hand over Eggsy’s and squeeze, his fingers soft and warm and safe around his; Eggsy can’t help but think of how it will feel to have a wedding ring dig his hand when Harry holds it.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Elfie spends three weeks in London, helps them book an appointment at the registry office, decide on a cake and what kind of fabric to use for their matching suits. It’s nothing, or at least that what she keeps telling them, a vacation from what she does for a living, but that doesn’t make either of them less grateful.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-two, asks if they should go to Spain for their honeymoon.   
It’s one of the few quiet evenings they get these days, because the world won’t stop producing all kind of scum that needs to be taken care of just because they are busy planning a wedding; they’re in bed already, Harry reading and Eggsy playing a racing game on his phone, absolutely crushing Albert’s high score.  
“Spain? Why Spain?”, he asks, a little distracted by the car he is still steering through Tokyo’s virtual streets. “I mean, I’d love to, always wanted to go, but it seems kind of… I dunno. Random.”  
“Because _you_ told me you always wanted to go”, Harry answers, amusement audible in his voice, maybe paired with a bit of surprise. “Back when – you know, after I got shot. I don’t remember why or in what context, but ever since then I wanted to take you there.”

Eggsy looks up at the other for a second, risking driving his car into a wall, to find Harry watching him. He hardly notices it anymore nowadays, but there’s still a light scar running down Harry’s temple and disappearing somewhere behind his hairline, even if all kinds of laser treatments almost made it vanish, and although they are hidden behind glasses now, his eyes aren’t quite the same colour. It’s a little scary how easily Eggsy has stopped thinking about something that changed his life in so many ways.

He still can’t remember ever telling Harry about Spain, but that doesn’t matter, just like it doesn’t matter that his bright yellow car crashes into a building, killing dozens of virtual pedestrians; what matters is that he almost forgot that how close he had been to lose the man in front of him.   
“Oh”, he says, or rather, breathes out, “Right.”  
It takes a second and then he has dropped his phone, has all but flung himself at Harry, his arms around the other’s neck, his face buried against Harry’s neck. Somewhere in between their bodies, Harry’s book is crushed.

Two, three moments pass until Harry reacts, reaching up to put a hand on Eggsy’s head, fingers carding through his hair. “What brought this on? Not that it isn’t appreciated, but it seems rather… sudden, so to speak.”  
Eggsy doesn’t answer right away, a little choked-up although nothing has happened for more than a decade. When he does, though, there is still no way to keep his voice from sounding a little bit shaken. “’s nothing, really, I just – I didn’t think about that in so long and it’s… I almost lost ya before we could have any of this.”  
Harry hums like he understand, and Eggsy hopes he does, hopes the thought of never having had this life together hurts Harry as much as it hurts him.   
“But you didn’t, my heart”, Harry answers gently, shifts until he can wrap his arms properly around Eggsy, holding him close. “And that’s what’s important.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-two and they decide to go to Spain for their honeymoon.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Eleanor drops by for dinner. She and Harry have been meeting ever so often during the last few months, nothing regular, but a cup of tea here and there, a quick lunch in between meetings.   
It doesn’t seem to change anything about how nervous Harry is now though, how he paces the living room again and again, checking the roast and the temperature of the wine and anything else he can think of until Eggsy pulls him down on the sofa with him, climbing onto the other’s lap to keep him from getting up again.

“I don’t really think we have time for this, Eggsy”, Harry tells him, sounding a little strained still, but mostly fond; it’s enough to count as a win in Eggsy’s books. “Eleanor will be here in quarter an hour.”  
“I know”, Eggsy replies, puts his arms around Harry’s neck and looks down at him, dressed in that old beige cardigan Eggsy won’t let him throw away, a pristine white shirt, his grey hair in a perfect coif. Lately, he has been finding a few more hairs in the drain of the shower than usual, thinks he might live to understand the eternal taunt that Harry’s thick hair seems to be to Merlin. “But I won’t have ya fussing about that poor piece of lamb for a second longer. Or about the mince sauce. Or the wine. Or anything, in fact.”

“Am I that obvious?”, Harry asks, sounding a little bit sheepish and making Eggsy chuckle, bend down to kiss the other softly.   
“Absolutely. It’s kinda cute, to be honest.”  
“I’m sixty-two years old, my heart, I don’t think I’ve got it in me to be cute anymore.”  
“Well, I disagree. Ya adorable, fussy old man.” Eggsy drags his hands down Harry’s chest, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles in his shirt, fingertips just so skirting over the skin the two undone buttons reveal. “I’m nervous too, though. It feels a bit like, I dunno. Meeting ya mother.”  
“Believe me, meeting my mother would be a lot scarier than this.”

Eggsy raises his gaze and one eyebrow simultaneously; it’s not often that Harry talks about his parents, and while he knows that Harry never got along well with them, he never imagined Mrs. Hart to be particularly scary. Coldly civil, maybe, but no one to be frightened of.   
“Why’s that?”, he asks, and Harry looks like he regrets mentioning it at all, but answers anyway.  
“In general, she wouldn’t have been, but as my fiancé… let’s just say, she never agreed with my inclinations towards my own sex.”   
Harry sighs, but lets Eggsy take his hand, lets him lace their fingers together. “She would be horrified, in fact, that I am marrying another man, even if he happens to be the loveliest creature to ever walk this Earth.”

The compliment would make Eggsy smile in every other situation, now it only makes him frown, raise Harry’s hand to his lips to press a kiss to the knuckles.   
“Well, she sounds like a bitch, ya mum does”, he states, and Harry chuckles, his fingers curling around Eggsy’s ever so slightly.   
“I suppose she does.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and although dinner with Eleanor is slightly awkward, filled with too many silences, Eggsy can't help but be glad that he only had to meet this one part of Harry's family.

 

Eggsy is thirty-six and Harry is sixty-two and they finally find their rings in the third shop they visit. They’re simple, made out of two intertwining bands, one silver and one gold, and Eggsy loves them a bit already the second he sets eyes on them.   
It’s still two months until the wedding, so there is more than enough time to get them engraved, which they do, both of them picking out what the other’s ring will say. It’s a horribly sappy thing to do and Eggsy knows it, suspects Harry does so too, but there is nothing in the world that could make him start to care about it, not when not caring will mean carrying Harry’s words with him for the rest of his life.

 

Eggsy turns thirty-seven in Halberstadt, Germany, where he spends a total of fourteen hours there and kills seven people, two mobsters and five of their guards.   
Why they would choose this particular town to hide, he doesn’t think he’ll ever know, but Harry sends him a picture of Daisy and JB who dropped by, and he almost misses his chance to shoot goon #4 because he’s too busy smiling.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Elliot drops by in his office with a six-pack of beer in one hand and a bag of crisps in the other. There is more paperwork he should be doing, but Eggsy ignores it for now, instead accepts a can of beer and watches Elliot drop into the chair in front of him, makes a mental note to text Harry he’ll be home a bit later than he thought.   
“About your wedding”, Elliot says without even greeting, which is just what Eggsy has come to expect from the other. It’s one of the things Eggsy is truly grateful for, how easy their friendship has become, that they have managed to stay friends in the first place.   
“Yeah? What about it?”  
“Can I bring a plus one?”

It’s one of the question Eggsy never expected, one which makes him stop mid-motion for a second. He knows that Elliot has been sleeping around here and there, but never heard of anyone important enough to be brought to an event, especially not one like this.  
“Sure”, he tells Elliot, puts down his beer. “Who? Anyone I know?”  
“Yeah.” Elliot just grins, almost a little bit smugly, and Eggsy thinks he should be a little bit scared, but is mostly happy for his friend, definitely curious about who has stolen his heart. “You do.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and only comes home around three in the morning, drunk of his arse and so unsteady on his feet that he ends up falling asleep on the sofa, because he’s too scared to try the stairs.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-two and they fight the last time as just a couple, not Mr. and Mr. Hart.  
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Eggsy, I know you can’t remember putting the wine back in the fridge, but the milk?”, Harry snaps when Eggsy comes down to have breakfast, still tired from having come home from his last mission just eight hours ago.  
“Y’know what, Harry?”, he responds back, annoyed and tired and not willing to be bitched at by his fiancé. “Go and fuck yourself. And the milk.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-two and they make up for the last time before getting married, a few moments before Harry walks out the door. It’s always been an unspoken rule that they do not part on bad terms, just in case anything that happens, so Harry waits patiently until Eggsy has shuffled to the door, looking up at the other a little sheepishly.   
“I’m sorry for snapping at you”, Harry tells him, and Eggsy steps so close that the older man can wrap his arms around him, hugging him for a few moments.   
“And I’m sorry for not putting the milk away yesterday.” Eggsy breathes in deeply, taking in the familiar smell of bergamot and Harry’s shampoo, his heart fluttering just so, like it always does. “And tellin’ ya to fuck it too.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven, asks, “By the way, Harry, Rox wanted to know if we were gonna write our vows ourselves. Which, if we do, we should probably tell the registrar about too.”  
Harry looks up from his tablet, looking at him thoughtfully; Eggsy doesn’t know what answer he’ll get, but doesn’t know which one he wants either.  
“If you want to, we can, but you know what I’d say, don’t you?”, Harry asks instead of an answering, and really, Eggsy does.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Roxy is thirty-eight, announces, “You’re both such absolute saps.”  
She drops down onto the couch next to Eggsy, throws up her hands in mock-exasperation, and Eggsy can’t help but laugh; Roxy agreed to pick up the rings for them, so neither of them would be tempted to look at the engravings, and so Merlin could install the GPS trackers he had designed specifically for them.  
“I don’t even know who is worse, you’re both a disaster.”   
“Ya just jealous”, Eggsy replies, pulls her over for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “’Cause Haz would never get ya a ring engraved with a Byron quote.”  
“Well, your Harry didn’t either.” Roxy leans back, makes a grabbing motion which clearly means she demands to be fed, and Eggsy lets her go, gets up. “And stop trying to get me to tell you what your ring says. You’ll find out soon enough.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and spends the last night before the wedding at Roxy’s house. It’s such a stupid custom that he can hardly believe they are going along with it, but at the same time, it does feel like it’ll make that moment at the altar a bit more special if he hasn’t watched the other dress, hasn’t helped him pick out a tie or brushed his teeth next to Harry, bumping elbows over the sink.   
And it’s nice to spend an evening with Roxy and Haz, the two twins divided between the three of them, watching Roxy cook because he isn’t allowed to help, while Haz tries to go over some work with Emma on his lap.   
It’s domestic and everything Eggsy ever wanted for his best friend, everything he wants too – a loving family, a home and nights like this, where everything just happens to be right.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Elliot brings James Crawley as his plus one.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and they get married.   
It’s a small room, hardly big enough to fit everyone they invited, sparsely decorated, just a few flower arrangements Roxy took care of, creamy white chair covers Daisy picked out together with Elfie. But Eggsy knows that, even if they had decorations to make the wedding fit for a queen, he wouldn’t see any of them; his eyes are fixed on Harry, who is standing right in front of him, looking gorgeous in his brand-new suit, his pocket square matching Eggsy’s tie and vice versa.  
There’s a smile on his lips and his eyes are so bright, so loving that he looks ten years younger at least, crow’s feet and grey hair forgotten.

The registrar is fixing her papers one last time, and Harry reaches out, takes one of Eggsy’s hands in both of his, holding it tightly and not even letting go once the registrar clears her throat.  
“Are you, Harry, free lawfully to marry Gary?”, she asks and it sounds so strange to hear his given name, especially now when it’s something so important. He hasn’t been Gary for ages.  
“I am”, Harry answers, Eggsy’s eyes following the movements of his lips, heart picking up its pace until every of its beats rips through him, making him shake and tremble, because Harry sounds just like he feels - awed and happy, like he’ll never stop smiling from now on.

“Are you, Gary, free lawfully to marry Harry?”, the registrar asks again, and for a second, just one, Eggsy looks over at her. She’s watching them with calm, blue eyes which must have seen hundreds of couples like them, unmoved but with her lips curled upwards ever so slightly.   
“I am”, he says, not knowing if his voice sounds as breathless as he feels; no matter if he does, he can’t help but be glad that they decided not to write their own vows, since he isn’t sure if he’d be able to even get half a sentence out, especially not one that would mean so much. “Absolutely.”

“Very well.” The registrar’s voice sounds kinder this time , but Eggsy doesn’t turn to look, not when Harry’s hands are still around his, and he has to resist the urge to kiss the other, his soon-to-be husband, no matter how much he wants to. “Then I want you to repeat after me, Harry: I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Harry, do take thee Gary, to be my lawful wedded husband.”  
Harry’s eyes are fixed on his face, warm and dark, his lips curling upwards even when he answers, the smile tinting his words even sweeter, no matter how sweet they sound already.  
“I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Harry, do take thee Gary, to be my lawful wedded husband.”

Nothing has ever sounded as beautiful to Eggsy as this one single sentence, no poem, no song; the words take his breath away, make his heart beat wildly, because this is it, this is what he has been waiting for since what feels like forever.   
“And you, Gary, please repeat after me: I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Gary, do take thee Harry, to be my lawful wedded husband.”  
He has no idea how to move his muscles, any of them, his entire being concentrated on Harry’s hands around his, his eyes, his smile, _him_ , and yet Eggsy does as he was told, breathes, “I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Gary, do take thee Harry, to be my lawful wedded husband.”

He can hardly hear what the registrar says, but he doesn’t need to; he hears it when Harry repeats the words to him, making them sound like the first time they have been spoken.  
“I give you this ring, as a token of my love, and a symbol of our marriage, I vow to be loving, faithful and loyal to you, throughout our lives together”, Harry says and squeezes his hand before letting go; Eggsy wants to catch his hands and pull them back again, not wanting to break the contact, before he realises that Merlin and Roxy have stepped forwards, are holding out their rings.

Something close to a sob escapes him, and Harry looks up from the rings, a soft smile on his lips and his eyes shining with what might be tears. He finds Eggsy’s hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles, and then, without looking down, Harry pushes the ring onto Eggsy’s finger, the metal cold against his skin, Harry’s fingertips warm.

“And now you, Gary”, the registrar prompts, making Eggsy realise that he has been silent for too long, has been caught up in this moment for what feels like forever. His finger still tingles when Harry lets go of his hand.   
For a second or two, they break eye contact so that Eggsy can take the ring Roxy is offering, returning and yet hardly seeing his best friend’s teary smile.  
“Repeat after me”, the registrar tells him, waiting patiently until Eggsy has taken Harry’s hand again, fingers flitting across skin, too nervous to settle down anywhere. “I give you this ring, as a token of my love, and a symbol of our marriage, I vow to be loving, faithful and loyal to you, throughout our lives together.”

It feels a bit like he’s on Harry’s doorstep again, preparing to tell the other he loves him for the very first time nine years ago, like it’s hard to breathe, hard to speak and yet even harder to stay quiet.   
“I give you this ring, as a token of my love, and a symbol of our marriage”, Eggsy starts, hands and voice shaking alike, his heart on fire. “I vow to be loving, faithful and loyal to you, throughout our lives together.”  
Harry is beaming, radiant with joy and love and awe, and Eggsy’s trembling fingers only miss once before he slides the ring where it belongs, makes Harry his once and for all.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-two and they kiss for the first time as a married couple, their friends and families cheering, clapping and the sound still fading to nothing when Harry pulls back, mutters _I love you_ against Eggsy’s lips.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-two, pecks his cheek and gets up from their table, the sight of him in his wedding suit, Eggsy’s ring gleaming on his finger, still enough to set Eggsy’s heart ablaze.   
He expects a speech, but it never comes; instead of Harry’s voice, music fills the air, the melody familiar and still only recognised once Julie Andrews starts to sing.

 _I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night_ , she sings, and Eggsy feels himself blush, the smile that hasn’t left his lips since he saw Harry again this morning widening until it almost hurts.  
“Ya didn’t”, he tells Harry, although the opposite is so obviously true, and his husband just chuckles, holds out his hand.   
“I did”, he answers, looks just like Rex Harrison, only better, and Eggsy would be his Audrey Hepburn at any time, any day, so he takes the offered hand, lets Harry pull him up and right into his arms.   
Up close, the smile on Harry’s lips is even more dazzling, makes Eggsy swoon even after such a long time. He leans in and kisses Harry even if just for a second; they have time for longer, lazier kisses later.

“Like in _My Fair Lady_?”, he asks for the second time they have known each other, and Harry drops one hand to Eggsy’s hip, raises the other one, still holding Eggsy’s high, counting the beats, one, two, three, before he starts to move, Eggsy’s feet following wherever Harry leads them.  
“Yes, my heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you didn't expect something a lot sappier, and that, for all of those who sent me their suggestions for wedding rings, weren't terribly disappointed by the ones I chose in the end.   
> We'll see how handy those trackers will still get~
> 
> (And for Mimi, I hope that, if you really plan on re-reading all of this, you'll appreciate me doing my best to still post this on Saturday! ;D)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In advance, this is not quite what I wanted it to be, but unfortunately I've been sick all week and I doubt the chapter would get better any time soon, so instead of making you wait even longer, you'll get it now, for better or worse.

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-two, puts an arm around him when they climb into the car. It’s early evening already, although they didn’t plan for the festivities to stretch out past four in the afternoon, and slowly, ever so slowly, Eggsy starts to feel the tension and excitement ebb off, leaving him a little tired and beyond happy.   
They’re married and it feels like a dream.

Their fingers tangle in between their bodies, ink still smudged from the tip of Harry’s thumb to the base, where he dragged his hand across their signatures on the wedding certificate before the ink had a chance to dry, too impatient, just like always. Not that Eggsy minds the fact that their names are blurry, seem to merge together in the middle of the page, it seems fitting.   
He traces the blueish lines with his own fingertips now, lets his head drop to Harry’s shoulder, eyes falling shut.

“If one of us ought to fall asleep on their wedding night, it should be me”, Harry comments, just a few seconds afterwards, his tone light and teasing, his arm tightening around Eggsy’s shoulders. “You’re rather too young for it.”  
“Oh shut it.” Eggsy cracks one eye open, smile on his lips like it has been the entire day, and leans a little bit closer. “I’m pushing forty, I deserve some rest.”  
“Indeed. But only after I had my way with you.”

There’s no heat in Harry’s voice, no lust, but Eggsy knows that will change; the mere thought is enough to make his hairs rise – surely being married won’t change the way they fuck, and yet it feels different, at least today.   
“Ya’ve plans for that?”, he asks, and Harry doesn’t answer, just raises their joined hands to his lips to press a kiss to the inside of Eggsy’s palm, a _yes_ that couldn’t be clearer.   
“Well, damn.”

Maybe he could get the driver to hurry up a little, Eggsy thinks, but then decides against trying; the anticipation makes everything sweeter, he has learnt, and his eyes catch a golden gleam when Harry drops their hand again, the ring around the other’s finger reflecting the dim glow from the street lights passing by. It looks good on Harry, almost impossibly so.   
Without thinking, Eggsy reaches out with his other hand, catches Harry’s wrist so he can bring their hands closer to his face, looking at the ring a little bit more closely.   
“Suits ya”, he mutters after a moment, maybe two, kisses _his husband’s_ knuckles, and Harry chuckles, curls his fingers around Eggsy’s hand.   
“I could say the same”, he replies, then after a second adds, “Did you look at the inscription already?”

Eggsy shakes his head, almost surprised at himself considering how much time he spent these last months wondering about what Harry came up with. “I totally forgot about that, how strange is that?”  
“Not stranger than me forgetting all about it.”  
“Wanna look, then?”, Eggsy asks, suddenly excited again. It feels a bit like hearing Harry confess his love for the first time again, feels a bit like doing so himself as well.  
“Absolutely.”  
Slowly, Eggsy lets go of Harry’s hand, heart beating a little faster, both nervous and exhilarated. The other looks like he’s feeling just the same when their eyes meet, matching smiles on their lips as they pull the rings off their fingers.

“ _To my saviour, my love, my other half_ ”, Harry reads out-loud, and it sounds cornier, different, to hear his words from his husband’s lips, uttered with Harry’s voice and crisp pronunciation. Feels even better when Harry stays silent for a few seconds, tears he’ll never shed making his eyes glisten. “Oh Eggsy…”  
He almost melts back against Harry, because it suddenly feels so important to be closer to the other again, but the curiosity is too strong in the end.   
His ring is a beautiful thing, polished to perfection, smooth enough that it won’t pose a risk on missions, but Eggsy ignores the artful way the two kinds of metal are woven together, eyes focussed on the inside of the ring, the delicate letters there.  
“ _22.02.2015 until forever_ ”, he reads out-loud, just like Harry has done, his brow furrowing in confusion for a second. “That’s…”  
“The day we met.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-two, looks radiantly beautiful spread out on the covers like this, grey hair stuck to his forehead and a flush on his cheeks. He’s gripping the sheets with both hands, his bottom lip caught between white teeth and Eggsy loves him so fiercely he feels like he’s burning up with it.  
“Move”, Harry grits out in between shaky breaths, muscles contracting around Eggsy’s shaft and making him dizzy for a second or two.  By now, after years and years, Harry knows just what he has to do to drive him insane.   
He doesn’t answer, just does what he is told, pulls out and thrusts back into Harry again, groaning when the other’s body opens up for him so easily, his hole fluttering around Eggsy’s cock in the most delicious of ways.

Harry’s legs tighten around Eggsy’s hips, pulling him in closer and almost making Eggsy choke on his breath. Like this, he can’t fuck into Harry properly, just roll his hips, and while it doesn’t have the same effect as the quick, sometimes even sharp thrusts Harry usually prefers, the intimacy makes more than up for it.   
Again, Harry pulls him closer and Eggsy can’t stop moving, not after having spent what feels like hours kissing and touching the man beneath him, not when the tingles of pleasure every motion causes are so addictive. One of his hands comes to rest on his husband’s hip, caressing the sensitive skin there and drawing a soft moan from Harry’s lips, his inner walls contracting around Eggsy’s cock and while it feels amazing, it’s not enough; although they’re locked together, it’s not close enough.

Harry’s joints will complain about it tomorrow, Eggsy knows it, but he still bends down until their chests are touching, until he can kiss the other, ignoring that his lips are already plump with the kisses they shared earlier. It takes a second or two, then Harry kisses him back.  
Although it should be difficult, they find a rhythm to move together easily, Eggsy rolling his hips and licking his way into the other’s mouth, Harry clenching and unclenching his muscles around his cock and nipping at Eggsy’s lips, one hand moving to rest on Eggsy’s shoulder, just above one of the countless scars Eggsy has collected by now.

It’s only when Harry sucks on his bottom lip a little harshly, makes Eggsy grind his cock harder into him, that they change their pace; the abrupt motion must have caused the head of Eggsy’s cock to brush against Harry’s prostate, making him tense up in pleasure, lips going pliant under Eggsy’s but his hole contracting, sending shocks of pleasure through Eggsy.  
He moves back against Harry faster, needing more of the delicious friction, his cock sliding deeper into the other when Harry tilts his hips upwards, changing the angle to one that is so much better, causing both of them to pant into the other’s mouth, lips moving sloppily.

“God, fuck, Harry”, he breathes, and Harry answers with a moan that sounds as breathless, as overwhelmed as Eggsy feels. His legs tighten around Eggsy’s middle for just a second, a silent plea for more, and Eggsy gives it as good as he knows how to, rolls his hips and somehow manages to get a hand in between their bodies, wrapping his fingers around Harry’s cock.  
The pressure -since there isn’t even enough space between them to create more than a minimal amount of friction - is enough to make Harry growl, reach up to wind his arms around Eggsy’s neck and kiss him as fiercely as he can, hips moving in synch with Eggsy.

Precome slicks up the grip Eggsy has on his cock, makes it easier for Harry to fuck up slightly into his fist, every miniscule thrust making Harry clench around his shaft and drawing moan after moan from Eggsy. By now, it feels like every of his nerves, no matter where its location, is working overtime, firing and making him feel as if he was burning up with pleasure, with love; when his orgasm finally overtakes him, Eggsy is too far gone to even be surprised.   
He can’t even change their frenzied rhythm, just moves together with Harry, every muscle of his body tensing as pleasure explodes inside of him, washing away every thought he might still have had in favour of leaving Eggsy blissed out. His hips are grinding his cock into Harry, filling the other up with his come, a mark he has left dozens of times before, but which never loses its deeper meaning.

What it is that pushes Harry over the edge in the end, Eggsy cannot say, but the other comes just as Eggsy starts to come back to himself again. His muscles tense and Eggsy tightens his grip around Harry’s cock as much as he dares to, feeling the other coat his palm and fingers with his come, tastes his own name on Harry’s tongue when he kisses him.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-two, spreads his legs willingly when Eggsy comes back to the bedroom with a wet towel. There is a lazy, satisfied smile on his lips while Eggsy wipes sweat and come from his stomach, between his thighs, and the wedding ring still gleams on his finger; it’s everything Eggsy never knew he wanted before.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-two, takes his hand and kisses his palm beneath Spain’s burning sun. They’re in Granada, at the Alhambra, and Eggsy is as taken by the prospect of staying here with his husband – _his husband_ – for the next ten days as he is with the surroundings.   
The palace looks like someone plucked it straight out of one of Scheherazade’s tales and Eggsy’s fingers itch to pick up one of the deep red roses from the bush next to them and place it behind Harry’s ear.  
He doesn’t, of course, even if mainly because of the security guards watching the tourists, instead intertwines their fingers.

A lady passing them looks at him in the most scandalised manner, makes some comment to one of her companions in a language Eggsy cannot understand; when they both turn around to gape, Eggsy pulls Harry down into a kiss that borders on being filthy, complete with tongue and teeth.  
It’s the best day he’s had in what feels like a lifetime.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and they have dinner on the beach of Málaga. It’s a sweet restaurant that Albert told them about when they were still planning this, and Eggsy has to agree with him on them serving the best paella in what has to be at least all of Spain.   
They share a bottle of Tempranillo and Eggsy kisses the wine-red stains off Harry’s lips once they get back to their room.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-two and they spend the last three days of their honeymoon not sight-seeing, but both on the beautiful beaches of Asturias and in their suite. Harry never says a word, but Eggsy strongly suspects that neither of them has ever had that much sex in such a short time before.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-two and they leave Spain behind, no matter how hard it is to do so; forgetting about the rest of the world, even if just for two weeks, seems to have been slightly addictive.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry turns sixty-three back in London and although they agreed on not celebrating birthdays, Eggsy can’t help but buy Harry a coaster saying _My husband ages better than fine wine_.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and they have been back in London for two weeks when he comes home to find Harry in the living room, a glass of brandy in one hand, but no book, no tablet in the other.   
“Ya alright?”, he asks, kisses the crown of Harry’s head before he goes to help himself to a drink. It’s been a long day.   
There’s no answer for several moments, not until Eggsy has turned back towards his husband again, a glass of whiskey in one hand, finds Harry fighting for words, it seems.   
“Harry?”, he prompts, and the other gives him a wry smile, takes a sip of his brandy before he finally answers.

“I didn’t want to tell you at first”, he starts, and if anything makes Eggsy worry a little more; ever since India it has been an unsaid rule not to keep any more secrets. “But both Elfie and Merlin have been bothering me about it for the last weeks, and they do have a point, no matter how much it pains me to admit it.”  
He takes a deep breath and Eggsy almost interrupts him, just because he needs to know what it is that worries Harry so, what it is that old friends have a right to know, but not him.   
“On the evening before our wedding, after you had already left, your mother dropped by. At first I thought she wanted to see you, but she didn’t. She wanted to talk to me.”

Again, there is a pause, and this time, Eggsy cannot take it; Michelle coming to see Harry can’t mean anything good.   
“What did she do?”, he demands to know, voice harsher than expected. “I fuckin’ told her to cut it out, should’ve known she wouldn’t listen.”  
“Well…”, Harry starts and Eggsy knows him well enough to recognise the tone of his voice, the one that means he is trying to find the nicest, least hurtful words for what he wants to say. “I think she was only trying to do what she thinks best for you, nothing more. Which apparently was not marrying me.”  
Eggsy knows what has to follow, and yet doesn’t want to believe it, not until the words have passed Harry’s lips: “She told me to call off the wedding, that otherwise I would ruin your life.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and doesn’t call his mother like he would like to, knowing it would lead in insults and screaming, a row he doesn’t need to have with her. Instead, he writes her a text, which is as impersonal and as safe as it gets, telling her that he knows, that he warned her, and that he won’t answer any of her calls for an undefined amount of time.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Roxy is thirty-eight when she goes on her first mission after the pregnancy. It’s a small one, just retcon, but still exciting enough to keep Roxy practically bouncing off the walls for a week before she leaves.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven, looks up from another form he is filling out when Elliot waltzes into his office. There is a cocky smile on his lips, which suits him, but still makes Eggsy a little bit cautious.  
“Guess who got laid yesterday?”, the other asks and throws himself into one of the chairs in front of Eggsy’s desk, craning his neck just a little until two deep red marks are visible on his skin, just above the collar of his shirt.   
“James Crawley, I assume”, Eggsy shoots back, and Elliot grins at him lazily, throws his legs over the chair’s armrest.   
“And you would definitely be right about that, my friend.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and the watch Harry has given him for his twenty-eighth birthday breaks. At first, he hardly believes it, shakes it, fiddles with the little wheel on the side, brings it to the tech department and then two different jewellers to try and get it to work again, but to no avail.   
He has others, of course, and yet none of them will be able to replace this one.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Roxy comes back from her mission with a bright smile on her lips and a long scratch on her cheek, not from a fight, but from hiding in some hedge.   
“It just felt so good to go back out there”, she tells him over a cup of coffee later that morning, her eyes still shining with joy. “To do what I was trained to do. I love my kids to death, you know I do, and I love Harry too, but I just never was meant to be a housewife.”  
Eggsy agrees with a nod - it’s something he has never ever considered possible, Roxy staying home for the rest of her life. “Does that mean ya will go on all those boring retcon missions now and Harry won’t bother me with them anymore?”  
Roxy scoffs into her cup, takes another sip. “You wish. I miss firing a gun just as much as the rest.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-three, and they go out for dinner. Nothing fancy, just a small restaurant around the corner because the both of them forgot to go shopping the days before. Harry makes a reservation for seven thirty, texts Eggsy that he won’t make it earlier than eight after all, that he should just sit down and have a glass of wine or two.   
So he does, walks up to the receptionist and gives her Harry’s name, only to realise a second later that it is his now as well.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-three, shows up too late and out of breath, but smiling and with a single red rose in one hand.   
“I’m so sorry, my heart”, he apologises before saying anything else, putting the rose down in front of Eggsy carefully and kissing him softly, quickly. “An important call, you know how it gets.”  
“’S okay. Anythin’ important, or just the usual rubbish?”  
“Something in between, I’d say. We’ll see about it sooner or later.”

Harry looks tired, like he’s been working too hard and sleeping too little, and Eggsy reaches over to squeeze his hand, smiling at his husband.   
“Tell me if it gets bad, okay? I wanna help, if I can.”   
“Thank you.” It takes a second, but Harry squeezes back, trails his thumb over Eggsy’s knuckles like an afterthought, like another apology. “It might turn into a mission for you, in fact. I’m not quite sure yet, and I hope it won’t, because it would be a deep cover one, but… well. That is something to worry about another time.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-three, asks him, “Eggsy, what was that name of the restaurant we went to last week?”  
“The Chinese one?”, Eggsy asks, looking up from his book to see Harry nod, brow furrowed in frustration and Eggsy knows why; it has been going on for years, but it’s getting harder and harder for him to remember names, dates, places. It’s nothing that bothers Eggsy, he always kind of expected it to happen, but it’s something that seems to weigh heavily on Harry. “Hakkasan.”  
“Ah, right. Thank you.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and finally, _finally_ , Merlin gives his okay for the holograph watches, which, in Eggsy’s humble opinion, are things of absolute beauty. They look just as sleek and elegant as the old ones, with a butter-soft, black watch band and a white-and-black face, which can be fold back to reveal its secret.  
The projector is tiny, but still capable of producing a sharp, interactive image of whatever Elliot or any other of the handlers want it to show.

It’s a gorgeous, gorgeous thing, and Eggsy and Elliot celebrate it being finishing an almost full bottle of whiskey they steal from Merlin’s desk.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Kay dies in Amsterdam, in a fight that Eggsy wishes he had never watched even a second of. It’s bloody, violent, almost feral in its brutality ; Kay takes down seven of the target’s bodyguards, maims two more, but it’s not enough.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and they toast to Kay, solemn faces around their not-round table as Eggsy downs another glass of Napoleonic brandy and pretends that it doesn’t weigh down his heart.   
Kay and he didn’t even get along too well, had a relationship based on mutual respect, but not affection, and yet it feels like losing a part of the family, a friend.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-three and they both leave early and together, hands intertwined. Kay was the one agent who served for longer than Harry did, had watched him grow up, so to speak, and although Harry’s head is held high and his posture is straight and proud, Eggsy can see that he is hurting.

It’s only when they are back home that he shows it, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and Eggsy is right there when he cracks, pulls Harry into his arms and tucks the other’s face into the crook of his neck, no matter how difficult it is with their height difference.   
Harry all but melts against him, his breath hot against Eggsy’s skin, and he just holds on, tries to give Harry back all the strength and love his husband has given him.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Roxy calls the next morning, sounding concerned although Eggsy can hear a children’s cartoon playing in the back.   
“How’s he holding up?”, she asks, and Eggsy can’t help but feel ridiculously touched by the question, that Roxy worries about his husband when she has so much on her plate already.   
“Alright, I think. Well, considering what happened, at least.” Eggsy holds the phone to his phone while he fixes the ice tea Daisy likes so much for when she comes over later. “He’s not okay, but I’ve the feeling he always kind of knew it’d end like this, at some point. Kay always was one of the more daring ones after all.”

“True.” On Roxy’s side of the line, the microwave beeps, and there is some rustling, some bustling, and then she adds, “And how are you holding up?”  
“Better, we never really had much of a relationship after all. But, I don’t know.” Eggsy stops stirring the cold black tea for a moment, tries to put into words what he is feeling. “We’ve been Kingsman for how long? Thirteen years? And every time we lose someone, it just gets harder.”  
“Yeah, I know.” Roxy sighs, and it sounds like there is more to it still. “Listen, I’ve got to go, the twins’ show will end any second, but if anything changes, let me know, okay?”  
“I will.” There’s a second in which Eggsy is overwhelmed by affection, by how grateful he is that after all this time, they’re still friends, and even when the feeling fades, it doesn’t leave him completely. “Ya aces, Rox. Thanks for everythin’.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Harry is sixty-three, comes to his office two days later with his expression grave.   
“I need to talk to you, Eggsy”, he tells him and he knows that it’s going to be something bad, maybe even very bad, before Harry has even sat down. “About Kay. His mission… do you remember the mission I told you about, the deep cover one, that I might have to send you on?”  
“Yeah?”  
“It’s got something to do with the one Kay was on, we just found out. His target seems to have ties to what we believe to be a ring of human traffickers. Which means…” Harry stops, like he doesn’t want to say the words, doesn’t want to make them real, and Eggsy knows just why – him going under deep cover is just as frightening to Harry is to Eggsy.

“Yeah”, he tells Harry, so he doesn’t have to say anything more, reaches out to take Harry’s hand, squeezes it. Telling him he knows. “Yeah, okay. We’ll manage it, we will.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and Elliot barges into his office like he always does, only stopping when he sees Harry next to him, munching on his Greek take-out.  
“Arthur, Galahad”, he greets, because at least in front of Harry, Elliot does mind his manners, then looks over at Eggsy. “I just wanted to ask if you fancied having a pint or two after work, Eggsy.”  
“I might, I’ll give ya a call later, okay? Still have to figure out who to propose for Kay’s position. Unless of course, ya’ve some idea.”   
It’s a joke, nothing more, but Elliot’s face lights up, a wicked little smile on his face.  
“I do, in fact”, Elliot tells him with a quick glance at Harry, who has stopped eating, looks like he is expecting something terrible to happen. “And someone who Arthur here promised a shot at becoming an agent some time ago, too.”

A moment passes, in which Eggsy is a little bit confused, then Harry says, “Oh, no.”  
“But Jamie has been talking about it all the time. He’d do great, I promise.” Elliot is still smiling, a little less smug this time, a little bit more charming. “And he is really, really rich. Which means that Merlin would be thrilled as well.”  
“Jamie? As in James Crawley?”, Eggsy asks, although he knows the answer. “Ya want me to propose James Crawley as our new Kay?”  
“Yes”, Elliot says, just as Harry exclaims, “No!”

“Well, ya did promise to let him, babe”, Eggsy counters, and Harry groans, puts down his fork.  
“Yes, but I didn’t _mean_ it.”  
“That’s not very gentlemanly though, is it?”  
Eggsy gives Harry a smile, waits as long as the other needs before he sighs, defeated. “Alright. But just as a candidate. Same chances as everyone else. Understood?”

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and finishes the last mission before the deep cover one, successfully too, but when he looks at the USB stick he acquired from his target, he doesn’t feel happy, not even particularly successful, just tired.

 

Eggsy is thirty-seven and starts to prepare for the mission in earnest. Last time he had to go on a mission like this, Merlin and his team did most of the work, but now he wants to have a part in it.  
For some reason, it calms him down a little bit to work through the information they have, to write his own dossier and compare it to Merlin’s, to build up a character from scratch he’ll play for the foreseeable future, to create social media pages that have enough embarrassing stories in their history to sound believable.

They dye his hair a lighter blonde and give him blue contact lenses, one girl in Merlin’s team with bright pink hair has a way figured out to give Eggsy a temporary scar from his cheek down to his lip. To give him a reason to search for work in South Africa, he learns the accent to the point where he catches himself speaking that way at home.   
Harry hates it and Eggsy does too, because it makes him feel like he’s gone already, far out of Harry’s reach.

 

Eggsy turns thirty-eight while buried in recordings of South African English and take-out Roxy dropped off so he won’t forget to eat.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Merlin hands him the tickets for the flight they booked, keys for the crappy apartment that will be his for several months. They have already brought clothes there, different necessities he will need to make it look like he’s lived there for half a year – all that is missing now are his toothbrush, his favourite slippers and Eggsy himself.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight, comes back home that day with a heavy heart, every step towards their house feeling like one that leads him further away. The last time he went on a deep cover mission, he screwed up even worse than he could have imagined and he can’t shake the feeling that just the same will happen this time.   
Harry waits for him on the couch, half a smile appearing on his lips when he sees Eggsy.   
“I take it that preparations went alright?”, he asks and Eggsy lets himself fall down next to Harry, shifting and turning so he can fit himself against his husband, before answering.   
“Yeah. As well as it could’ve gone, I guess”, Eggsy mutters, resting his head against Harry’s shoulder as the other puts an arm around his shoulders, fingers painting invisible patterns on the skin of Eggsy’s collarbone. “I don’t wanna go.”

Harry sighs, pulls him closer and presses a kiss to Eggsy’s temple, soft and sweet.   
“I don’t want you to go either”, he admits, “And if I could find another way, I would, but there isn’t any. But if we’re lucky, it won’t take longer than a few months, and then you’ll be back, for however long I can keep here. Maybe we could go on a trip afterwards? A week in a different city, maybe Lisbon?”  
“That sounds great.” Like this, with the promise of something great as soon as he’s finished with the mission, with Harry’s arms around him, Eggsy can almost calm himself down a bit, ignore the churning in his stomach whenever he thinks of South Africa.

For a few minutes they just stay silent, wrapped up in each other, then Harry says, “I cooked some Irish Stew, if you’re hungry.”  
As if on cue, Eggsy’s stomach growls, reminding him that it’s been at least eight hours since he last ate, but the thought of getting up and leaving Harry’s warmth, his gentle touches behind sounds far more unappealing than staying hungry. So instead of getting up, Eggsy turns his head, buries his face in the crook of the other’s neck, breathes in the scent of cologne and sweat.   
And Harry gets it, because he always does, wraps his arms around him more tightly, whispers, “Okay, my heart. We’ve got time.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-three; they hardly sleep that night. The sex is more of an afterthought, some way to get closer than they already are, limbs tangled and breaths mingling; when Eggsy comes, it’s with Harry’s name on his lips.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and he wakes up when Harry presses a kiss to his cheek, carding his fingers through Eggsy’s hair.   
“Wake up, dearest”, he mutters and Eggsy’s eyes flutter open; something is not right, he knows that, but what it is only comes to him a second later, when Harry continues. “It’s time to go.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and leaves his wedding ring behind on the nightstand and there is nothing in the world that could have prepared him for how horrible it feels.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and sets foot on South African ground. It doesn’t feel different - the air is hot, but doesn’t feel like it’s crushing him, the sun is burning down but he doesn’t feel like he’s burning up.   
He takes another step, another, and thinks that maybe it won’t turn out that bad after all.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and his flat feels too small, too cramped, but he settles down anyway, takes a nap and then sets out to go to work with a fake ID in his pocket and a packet of cocaine in the other. The sun is still too hot, especially under his bulletproof tracksuit, but Eggsy ignores it, just like he ignores the noises around him, the smells.   
He’s here on a mission, nothing more.

It’s easy to find the club his target spends most of his nights, especially with Merlin in his ear, telling him when to take a turn, but although Eggsy saw pictures of it, he’s still slightly surprised by how dirty the alley is, how small and easily overlooked the club is. Eggsy assumes it’s part of the appeal, at least for Bafana Naidu, who seems to be more than just careful, one of the qualities the boss of an international ring of human traffickers should definitely possess.   
But it’s not Bafana, who Eggsy is interested tonight, no – he has to start small, it wouldn’t help to try and approach the boss on his first night here. Instead he’s after Karusha Lombard, a former lover and still an associate of Naidu.  
She’s a gorgeous woman from what he could tell from the pictures, tall and lean, with the grace of a not-quite domesticated predator, who always seems to be looking out for new talent, preferably talent she also would like to take to bed. It’s why Eggsy is the one to take this mission, although Roxy is far more familiar with South Africa than he ever will be, although Thelma, their new Bors and Albert speak Afrikaans fluently. Eggsy just happens to look like the type of men who could provide Karusha everything she is after, just like Kay would have.

It costs him fifty rands to get into the club, a stranger like him, but Eggsy has expected having to grease some palms; that’s how these things work after all.   
While it looked like the worst kind of shithole from outside, the club is almost glamorous once Eggsy has stepped inside, the sparse furniture clean and modern, black and white, the few lamps tinting the room in a flattering orange-golden glow. On the dancefloor, a couple of girls are swaying to the music, more undressed than dressed and with the way they keep looking over, obviously the companions of the men seated in one corner. Apart from that, the club isn’t busy, but not so empty it could be considered uncommon.   
It speaks volumes about Naidu’s paranoia, making sure to just so keep up the pretence of normalcy.

“Over there, at the bar”, Merlin whispers in his ear, “Nine o’ clock. Yellow dress.”  
Eggsy nods almost unnoticeably, doesn’t turn to look; there is no need for it, and he doesn’t want to make Karusha suspicious by zeroing in on her immediately. He’s been taught better than that.   
Instead, he walks towards the bar and orders a pint of Windhoek Lager, wishing he had tried it back at home, like Harry suggested, so he could have gotten used to the unfamiliar taste on his tongue.   
_Harry_.   
For a second, the unsettling feeling in his stomach is back, almost making him flinch, part anxiety and part already missing the husband he left at home, but it’s just that, a second. Then he’s back on track, all Kingsman agent and not the middle-aged man whose ankle still hurts from time to time, because he didn’t let it heal properly when he jumped out of the window in the Phillipines, who had problems even taking a nap without knowing Harry near him.

The second sip of beer is better, and Eggsy forces his lips into an easy smirk when he thanks the pretty bartender, prompting her red-painted lips to curl upwards as well. As much as he dislikes it, the chances that this mission will require him to sleep with a woman, two women, three, are high, especially if Karusha doesn’t decide she wants him soon.   
He and Harry talked about it, of course, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and leaves the bar without doing more than casting two or three glances at Karusha.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and calls Harry once he gets back to his flat, has locked his door twice, just to make sure.  
It takes a two, three, four rings until the other picks up, mutters, “Hello, Eggsy.”  
His voice is a little bit rough, sleepy, and yet Eggsy’s heart speeds up immediately, filling him with the warmth he’s been missing ever since he left home.   
“Hey”, he answers, lays back on his bed, ignoring how hard the mattress is, so different from the one back in London. “How are ya? Everything alright?”  
“Of course. It’s been another boring day in the office, Albert came back from Istanbul, but that’s about it. He almost blew up a mosque, it was ridiculous.”

Still, there is a smile in Harry’s voice – not surprising, really, Eggsy has seen some of the reports of Harry’s older missions and his husband was rather prone to causing unnecessary explosions.   
“Ya gave him a good talkin’ to?”  
“No, I left that to Merlin. He’s a lot scarier than I could ever be.”  
“That’s definitely true.” He’s grinning despite himself, imagining Merlin’s stern voice and Albert’s sarcasm; he’ll have to ask one of them about how it went. “Ya know how it went for me, don’t ya?”  
“Of course. I’ve been watching your every step.”  
It should sound creepy, strange, but it doesn’t; if anything, it makes Eggsy feel safe, knowing that Harry is watching, still keeping an eye on him, although he is miles and miles away.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and he lets two days pass before he goes to the club again, handing the bouncer outside another note to be let inside. He orders the same beer, sits on the same spot, gives the bar tender the same smile.   
Karusha doesn’t show, but that doesn’t matter much, the only thing that does is that Eggsy is being seen.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and it takes almost two weeks until he is at the point where he dares to send Karusha a drink. It’s a dry martini, just the way she likes them, and Eggsy does his best not to feel painfully reminded of that night more than a decade ago, Harry with his shoulder holster still on, teaching him how to mix a proper martini, his second lesson in being a gentleman.

The last ten days, he sold small packets of cocaine to a few different people, just enough to get him noticed, and he knows that Karusha is aware of that; it has its perks to have a full department of tech wizards back at home.   
She takes it and Eggsy looks at her, smiles, and although her expression doesn’t change, he knows he’s won. It’s all there, in the way she turns towards him a little bit more, cranes her neck to show off the elegant curve of her shoulders, how she leans forward just a little.

Still, he doesn’t approach her, just sends her two, three looks while she sips her drink, waits until she gets up and saunters over, red chiffon brushing over the dark skin of her thighs. She’d be irresistible if Eggsy didn’t have someone at home who’s even better; anyone else would be kneeling at her feet already, so Eggsy does his best to look, speak, act like he is ready to do so at any given moment.  
“Hey, choty goty”, he greets, turns around to give her a once over, letting his tongue dart out to wet his lips. “Liked the drink?”  
“I like who it came from even more.”

Her eyes dart down to Eggsy’s lips, and if he had known that he had reeled her in already, he’d know now. “That’s great, ‘cause I’ve been watching you all night. Thought maybe you’re lookin’ for some company… or someone to do some grafting for you.”  
Karusha looks surprised, but not unpleasantly so, which might just have something to do with the half-smirk on Eggsy’s lips, the three buttons of his shirt he left unbuttoned. Still, she takes a second or two to consider, her dark eyes sizing Eggsy up before her lips curl into the kind of lazy smile that means yes, always does.   
“Can’t I be both?”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and doesn’t fuck Karusha, at least not when one goes into the semantics; he does end up with two fingers inside her though, making her gasp and moan and come while pressed against the door of her apartment.   
It’s easy to pretend that he just couldn’t wait long enough to make it back to the bed with her, especially when he sucks her slick off his fingers, smiling around the knuckles. His own cock is only half hard, but that seems to be enough for her when she reaches down, expression soft and satisfied.   
“Let’s go and take care of this, then.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and it’s six in the morning when he stumbles home. There are a few marks on his neck and chest, and an unsettling feeling in his stomach; he has dialled Harry’s number before he has even made it to the bed.   
He lets it ring and ring and ring, but his husband doesn’t answer, which most likely is for the best, considering how late it is already. When the call goes to voice mail, he considers hanging up, but doesn’t in the end, because it seems better than nothing to talk, even if he won’t get an answer.

“Hi”, he starts, because he doesn’t what else to say, sits down on the bed and pushes a hand through his hair. “I just came – well, ya’ll know what I just did once ya’ve watched the feed. So I wouldn’t have to tell ya, but I just… I don’t know. I wanted to hear ya voice, I guess, because I came down the throat of someone who sells girls and boys for a livin’ and it doesn’t feel too good.”  
He’s breathing just a little heavier, a bit out of breath from blurting out all of that in one go, and tries to reel himself back in, since it won’t do any good to break down now.   
“Anyway”, he says instead, “I’ll hang up now and try and sleep a little. Stay safe, I love ya.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and wakes up far too late and with two missed calls from Harry, as well as a text message.

_I hope you’re feeling better after a good night’s sleep and I am sorry that I didn’t hear my phone last night. I’m in a meeting from 12-4 today, but if you’ve time to talk after that, give me a call.  
All my love, as always xx_

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and meets Karusha at her flat three days later. Booty call, that’s the term for it, and while he hates going down on her again, Mark, who she really invited, doesn’t, eats her out like she’s the best thing he has ever tasted.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry turns sixty-four and he is not at home to at least give him a kiss.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four, groans when Eggsy asks about how the new recruits are doing.   
“It is terrible”, he tells him with another exaggerated sigh and the sound of swallowing; Eggsy should mind it, but he’s got a glass of port in other hand, which makes it feel a bit like they are having a drink together. “Well, most of them are rather good. Roxy is particularly fond of one of the girls, Natasha, and Bors’ candidate, Alexander, is an incredible marksman, but unfortunately, _unfortunately_ , neither of them is as good as Crawley.”

Despite himself, Eggsy has to laugh, taking another sip of port to try and not think about how Harry has to look right now, not to miss him. “Let me guess, ya haven’t warmed to him yet, have ya?”  
“Not at all. He is a terrible man, but even I have to admit that Elliot and he are rather sweet together whenever they think no one is looking.”  
“They’re still together?”, Eggsy asks, although he is fairly certain that Harry would rather not continue talking about the one man he hates most in their entire organisation. “I’m a little bit surprised, not gonna lie.”  
“As am I. I might have had problems with Elliot before, he seems too good a man to be stuck with someone like Crawley.”

“Oh, oh, going soft in your old days, are ya?”, Eggsy teases, and Harry chuckles, takes another sip of whatever he’s having.   
“You wish, my heart. I’m still going to give you a talking to if you don’t get back here in one piece.” There’s the kind of warmth Eggsy has never heard in Harry’s voice unless he’s talking to him, the one that still makes his stomach flutter, that makes him smile although he is so far away from home.   
“I’m counting on it”, he answers and squeezes his phone because he can’t hold Harry’s hand. “Just like always.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Karusha finally introduces him to Naidu. He’s averagely tall, a little shorter than the gorgeous woman between them, but although there are deep wrinkles and a scar marring his face, he’s still attractive. Suspicious too, especially with how he looks Eggsy up and down, trying to seize him up, but that was to be expected.   
He’s not an amateur, he’s a man just as dangerous as Eggsy is himself.

“Marcus, izit?”, Naidu asks, deliberately getting the name wrong, but Eggsy doesn’t give him the satisfaction of getting angry.   
“Mark, actually, but I always appreciated the occasional nickname”, he shoots back with a grin, puts a hand on Karusha’s thigh just to show him he won’t back down. “My bokkie here told me you would be interested in doing some business with me?”  
Naidu bristles a bit at the term of endearment, but doesn’t comment, just gives Eggsy a sharp look.   
“Karusha said you were looking for some graft? And that you weren’t too picky about what sort of graft it was. If that is true, yeah. I’d be interested.”  
And jackpot, that’s just what he has been after for two and a half terrible, terrible months now.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and can’t help but feel victorious when he comes back to his dingy little flat, can’t help but feel hopeful that he’ll be home before long.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and it takes another week until Naidu calls him, probably a way to test his patience. It’s a hardly a real conversation, just a time and a location barked into the phone, no details given, but in  the end, it’s all Eggsy needs, the knowledge where and when he’ll be able to make those bastards pay.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and even after fourteen years as an agent, he feels slightly sick when he enters the _storage room_ , as Karusha calls it. It’s a warehouse on the borders of the city, looking filthy, abandoned from the outside, and even worse once he had set foot in it, a few mattresses on the floors, broken down chairs and the occasional empty bottle, scrap of clothing.   
In between, about a dozen young women, scared and half-naked already.   
“New shipment”, Karusha says next to him, and her voice is so emotionless, cold that Eggsy can’t quite keep the disgust from flitting across his face at the thought of having played this woman’s lover for months now. “They’re going to go to Namibia and Angola, mostly. Except for the one in the back, Bafana wants to keep her.”

She points at a girl in the back who flinches; she can’t be older than sixteen and Eggsy wants to smash Naidu’s face in with his bare fists.  
“She got a name?”, he asks, so he’ll be able to ask Merlin to take special care with her later, but Karusha just shrugs, like she never even considered the possibility.   
“Bafana calls her poes, if that helps”, she offers, and no, it doesn’t.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and sends Merlin the coordinates when he’s at his flat, together with a little message:  
_I won’t leave the arsehole alive._

It takes a few minutes for the older man to respond; when he does, it’s only one word.   
_Good._

Eggsy is thirty-eight and steps onto the plane with blood on his cufflinks, his collar, and a satisfied smile on his lips.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and comes back to London in the early morning. The adrenaline has long since worn off, his muscles are tired and aching, but Harry is there waiting for him when they land, looking just like he did before Eggsy went away.   
“Welcome back, Galahad”, he greets him with a smile that ruins the pretence of formality, just like Eggsy does only moments later, flinging himself into his husband’s arms.   
“Good to be back, love.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four, takes him back home right after his debrief.  The other looks tired, just like he always does if Eggsy has been away for a longer time, wasn’t there to make sure that Harry doesn’t overwork himself, so Eggsy snuggles into his side in the car, lets his head rest on his husband’s shoulder.   
“Missed ya”, he mutters against the soft skin of Harry’s neck, breathes out a content sigh when the other shifts to wrap an arm around him. They are close to home, Eggsy recognises the streets they are driving along, and as glad as he is to be back, he doesn’t want to leave his husband’s embrace, not now and not ever, wonders if they can convince the driver to let them stay for a little while longer.  
“I missed you too”, Harry answers, strokes his fingers over Eggsy’s biceps, down to his elbow. “The house wasn’t the same without you in it.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and wakes up in his own bed again for the first time in months.   
It feels like coming home.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and stays home the entire day, getting up around noon and not even bothering to change out of his PJs. Daisy drops by in the afternoon, hugging him tightly, although she’s insisted on being too old for this kind of physical affection just a half a year ago.  
He can’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight, has been home for nine days and hasn’t spent one in HQ yet since he got back. He doesn’t miss it, and that is what feels strange, doesn’t miss the excitement and bustle, instead enjoys catching up with Rob, Jamal and Ryan over a pint of beer, watching movies he’s been meaning to see for ages, doesn’t even mind the housework that needs doing.   
Harry must notice, but he doesn’t comment on it, just kisses him on the cheek before leaving for work in the morning, tells him all about what happened at dinner.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and wakes up because his phone is ringing. It’s ten in the morning, Harry left two hours ago, ruffling Eggsy’s hair and telling him not to wait up for him tonight, it might get late.   
“’lo?”, he greets the caller, without even bothering to look at who it is. He hasn’t gotten an important call on his mobile in ages.   
“Eggsy?”, Merlin asks, and Eggsy manages to crack an eye open, sit up.  
“Yeah? What’s up, guv?”  
“I just wanted to ask you if you could maybe tell Harry to get his arse out of bed, he’s already missed one meeting and I’d hate to lie to another head of state about his whereabouts. Oh, and tell him that whatever he did to his glasses, I noticed and I am not amused.”  
“What? Harry’s not at HQ?”

It’s a skill he picked up somewhere along the way, being completely awake and worried from one second to the next, even if Eggsy tells himself that there’s no reason for it, not yet. Chances are that Harry just stopped at a coffee shop to get a late breakfast and forgot the time, that he met an old acquaintance and decided to ignore his responsibilities for once. That anything happened, but all the terrible, gruesome things Eggsy has seen and never wants to see again.   
Only that Merlin sounds worried when he replies, his voice the kind of controlled calm that Eggsy has started to associate with danger, with death.   
“You mean he’s not with you?”, the older man asks and Eggsy’s breath hitches in his throat, because this is what he has always been afraid of, and yet thought impossible – losing Harry to Kingsman a second time.   
“He left about two hours ago”, he tells Merlin and tries to ignore the fear spreading through his body, cold and slick, turning his blood to ice. “I haven’t seen him since.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter and... I'm sorry?
> 
> Also a little heads up, the plan is that there will be 2-4 more chapters until the end! So if there is anything you really, really want to see, or want to know about anything in this story, let me know and I'll do my best to put it in one of the next chapters (:   
> ♥


	17. Chapter 17

Eggsy is thirty-eight and it takes Merlin the worst twenty-six hours of Eggsy’s life to find Harry. Or rather, it takes twenty-six hours until the feed of Harry’s feed is turned on again, though not by Harry.   
The past day, Eggsy has waited for this moment, hoping, wishing, praying for the feed to maybe show the insides of a bar where Harry had passed out, anything but what he sees now – not the world from Harry’s perspective, but Harry himself, tied to a chair. His grey hair is hanging into his face in sweat-slick strands, but his shoulders are pulled back, his posture still the same it usually is; he meets the camera with calm, brown eyes.

The feed shakes slightly, shifts and moves – someone is positioning it the way they want it, then there’s a voice ringing out which makes the hair on the back of Eggsy’s neck stand up. It’s male, smooth but with a cruel edge to it, but that’s not what scares Eggsy more than even the sight of his husband like this - it’s the smug undertone, like that of a man who has accomplished all his goals and now just waits to watch everything play out the way he wants to, like he is untouchable.

“Gentlemen”, the voice starts, then corrects himself, “Or maybe ladies and gentlemen, you can’t know anymore these days, and I would hate to offend any women present to our little show. That I would grow up to see a world in which there are female knights… and a mass murderer leading a spy organisation.”  
He sounds wistful, almost amused and Eggsy wants to put his gun to the man’s temple and pull the trigger. His teeth are clenched and even without turning around, without taking his eyes from the screen for a second, he knows that Merlin is just as tense, as scared.   
Again, there is movement, but this time it’s not the glasses that are moved, it’s someone stepping closer to Harry, who sits still as if he was hewn from marble and not made from flesh and blood, even when the man backhands him across the face, the single ring he wears leaving a cut along the skin.   
Eggsy screams in his stead.

“Because that is what this man here is. A murderer. That’s what all of you are.” The man knows just how to move without showing his face, even when he bends down a little to brush a strand of hair from Harry’s face. “And you’ll all pay for what you have done, slowly and painfully, but only after he has.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and downs the glass of whiskey Merlin sets down in front of him with one single gulp. The alcohol burns, but he hardly notices it, because it feels like his entire body is in pain anyway, his eyes burning with unshed tears, his muscles tense and his head about to explode, even if he hasn’t yet fully understood what is happening.  
“Who was that?”, he asks before Merlin has even sat down; it’s the same question he has been asking himself ever since the feed started. “Who was that and how are we gonna find him?”

Merlin stays quiet for a few long moments, knocking back his own glass of whiskey.   
“You’re not going to enjoy the answer I have for you”, the older man finally says, and Eggsy knew he wouldn’t before he even asked. “Because I have no idea. He doesn’t sound familiar, at least not to me and Harry has been a Kingsman agent for so long that he must have more enemies than I could ever remember. And there’s still the possibility that he wasn’t even after Harry, but just after Kingsman in general.”  
“I want him dead”, Eggsy tells the other although he is certain that Merlin knows it already.   
“You’re not the only one.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and the man on screen says, almost conversationally, “I’m going to turn up the temperature in this room. To… let’s say thirty-eight degrees? Nothing dangerous, but still very uncomfortable. And of course Harry here won’t get any more water. Or any water in general.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and it takes everything, absolutely everything he has in him not to scream. Merlin, two more of the tech department and he are bent over the table, every snippet of information they have about Harry’s whereabouts spread out in front of them – it’s not much, hardly anything, and being confronted with that fact like this is almost too much for Eggsy to take.   
Because somewhere out there is Harry, sweating and slowly dying in the hands of a maniac and there is nothing they can do. He doesn’t even know if his husband is still alive, since the feed of the glasses is only turned on when Harry’s kidnapper feels like it.

“Going by the accent, I’d say he’s Hungarian, or Czech, something like that. That might help us narrow down the list of suspects a little”, the Asian woman next to Merlin says; Eggsy should know her name, but doesn’t. “Even an agent as prolific as Arthur must have had only a small number of mission in these parts of Europe, right?”  
“It’s at least worth checking out”, Merlin agrees, adds, “I want a list of missions and their targets on my desk within the hour.”  
The woman nods and leaves and Eggsy stares down on the desk, then looks up again at Merlin, tears suddenly clouding his vision. Eggsy doesn’t let them fall, but they are audible in his choked up voice when he mutters, “This is not supposed to happen, not to Harry. He’s supposed to be safe.”

He hurts all over still, and when Merlin meets his eyes he can see some form of the same pain in the other’s expression, painted with more subtle strokes but there nonetheless.   
“I know, Eggsy”, he answers and his voice slices through Eggsy, broken and scared and yet determined. “But we’re going to get him back.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Elliot says, “Mate, I know you won’t want to go home, but you need to sleep. Just an hour or so, you look like you’re about to pass out and that won’t do Harry any good either.”  
His first urge is to say no, say he needs to stay and he needs to do everything he can to get Harry back, but Elliot is right, he is no help as exhausted as he is right now.   
He’ll have nightmares, Eggsy knows that much, but in the end, even horrible sleep is better than none.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and dreams of yet another bullet ripping a hole into his husband’s skull.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and a hand shakes him awake gently, whispered words making it impossible to imagine himself at home for even a moment.   
“The feed is turned on again, Eggsy. You should… you probably want to watch this.” It’s Elliot again, his voice soft and friendly, but his face betrays what it is they have seen on the feed. There are dark bags under his eyes, a stark contrast to his unusually pale face, and Eggsy is scared, more so than before he jumped out of the window in the Philippines, more so than he was in India, than when he had to take out Valentine’s goons out by himself, his heart broken and still breaking.

“How bad is it?”, he asks Elliot while he picks himself up from the bed quickly, ignoring his shoes and instead following Elliot outside in just his socks, steps too wide and too fast, his breath coming in huffs. The shadows of his nightmares still linger at the back of his mind.   
“Bad. Like, very bad.” Elliot is just behind him, but Eggsy still hardly understands what he is saying, the other’s voice too quiet, and that answers every other question he might have had.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four, looks like he has aged a decade in the three hours and twenty-four minutes the feed has been turned off. His skin is flushed, glistening with sweat, his lips cracked and bruises covering his face; it hurts to look at him, every breath Eggsy draws feeling like one is taking away from Harry.  
“So I was thinking”, the man says, moving into the frame, grey pants and a dark belt, a heavy-looking hammer in his hands. “Since he won’t walk out of this room again, there is no reason your Arthur needs his kneecaps, is there?”

There is a smirk hidden in his voice, the kind of sadistic joy that made Eggsy shiver before, and there is just enough time for Eggsy to look away before he raises the hammer, brings it down again with a loud, sickening crack, with Harry finally losing his cool and screaming.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and cannot stop shaking, even half an hour later. Harry’s voice still rings in his head, the sight of the hammer in thick-fingered hands etched in his memory forever.  
“I’m gonna make him pay for this”, he tells Roxy, who is sitting in front of him, a cup of tea in her hands. He should drink something too, eat, but Eggsy knows that, but doesn’t, feeling sick just at the thought. “As soon as we have him, I’m gonna put a fuckin’ bullet in his head for what he did to Harry. And that’s if I’m feeling generous, ‘cause God, he’d deserve something far worse.”

There’s a pause in which Roxy stays silent, sips her tea, but Eggsy can see the tension in her fingers, the hardness of her eyes, then she mutters, “Well, he’s lucky that he’s got your Harry and not mine then, because I’d cut him into pieces.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Roxy makes him drink a cup of water, Elliot sweet-talks him into nibbling on a biscuit or two, even though his stomach is churning.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and it’s the middle of the next day when the feed starts again. The crackling of the first two seconds are enough to make Eggsy’s heart speed up in the worst of ways, the sight of Harry makes him cry out.   
If possible, his husband looks even worse now, his eyes all but swollen shut, his bottom lip split in several places, blood smeared across his face. There are cuts across his chest, the shirt Eggsy has watched Harry put on just a three days ago torn and tattered; Eggsy feels like weeping, just like he feels like smashing the kidnapper’s head in.

“And here we are again”, the man says, still sounding unaffected, amused. He is holding something in his hands, something made from steel, glistening and gleaming in the cold light of whatever room he is holding his husband in; when he draws it across his thumb, Eggsy can see blood welling up from the cut. “You see, I have spent quite some time thinking about what to do with your king and leader here. At first, I thought about sending you his head in a box, maybe with his glasses still on so I can see your reaction. Then I thought, no, that’s too quick a death for someone like him. Maybe just slowly beating him to death, sending you a picture or a little clip so you can watch him die. Make him beg so you know just in how much pain he is. But then I had an even better idea.”

Eggsy can hear the grin in his voice, and there are no words anymore to describe what Eggsy is feeling; he’s felt desperation before in his life, hate and helplessness and despair, but never in this intensity, never so completely he cannot hear the thoughts over his feelings. That he can hardly hear the kidnapper finish his sentence.   
“I’m going to do both – I’ll send you your leader back in pieces, one slice at a time, and in between, I’ll allow you to watch him suffer. Starting right now.”

The man takes a step forward, towards Harry, and Eggsy desperately wants to look away, but can’t; it’d feel like abandoning the other, and if there is one thing Eggsy could never do, it’s that. So instead he watches the kidnapper adjust his glasses so that the camera is focussed on Harry’s fingers, the ones Eggsy has held and kissed and stroked for a decade, the ones he can still feel brushing through his hair right now, a ghost of a touch.   
“Oh, before I forget”, the kidnapper says, positions the knife just above the first knuckle of Harry’s pinkie. “Since Arthur here was wearing a wedding ring, I do hope that his wife is watching right now. I’d hate for her to miss this.”

Eggsy doesn’t even make it until the first drop of blood wells up from the cut on Harry’s skin before he throws up.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Roxy’s arms are around him, holding him close, her lips moving next to his ear, whispering appeasements which Eggsy knows are hardly more than wishes. He is glad for it anyway, just to know that there is someone there who can keep him upright when he isn’t certain he can do it himself.   
“They’ll find him”, Roxy tells him and Eggsy stays silent, plays with the wedding ring on his finger, thinking about _22.02.2015 until forever_ and how soon forever could be over. “Trish and Elliot are working through the list of potential missions Harry could have met the guy on, and Merlin is trying to figure out how to turn on the tracker in Harry’s glasses again, and you know how good he is at what he does. And Elfie is helping him, so they’ll be done in no time. Before… before he can do anything else to Harry.”

Eggsy twists his ring, leans into Roxy, and then…  
“The tracker”, he whispers, horrified that he hasn’t thought about it before, suddenly hopeful because he just did. “Roxy, the tracker. There are trackers in our wedding rings.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Merlin locates the counterpart of his own ring in Slovakia, the outskirts of a city called Levice. Eggsy has never heard of it, is certain he doesn’t want to hear the name again, but the city is the first beacon of hope in far too long, even if there is no way of making sure that the ring is anywhere close to Harry anymore, not even that the finger it belongs on is still attached to his husband.   
The thought is so painful it makes Eggsy flinch, feel sick once more, but he can’t shake it, not even when he climbs into the jet, Merlin, Thelma and Roxy at his side and Elliot in his ear, giving them whatever information he could find about where they are holding Harry. It’s not much, but there are blueprints sent to the holograph watches Merlin hands Thelma and Roxy, and finally a name to the man Eggsy hates more than he ever hated Valentine, hated Dean, hated anyone.   
Augustín Strnad.

Twenty-two years, Elliot tells them, Harry seduced his mother to get to his father, got him imprisoned and didn’t realise that she couldn’t bear the guilt until she had blown her head off in front of her eight year old son.   
It must have been the event that made fuelled the wish for revenge, and Eggsy grits his teeth when Elliot says the words, refusing to understand even a little bit of the man’s motives. He doesn’t deserve it, just like he doesn’t deserve sympathy, pity, not when Elliot mentions, in the very next sentence, that Harry has lost another knuckle.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight, says, “I want my watch. I’m going to blow the bastard’s head off, but first I am going to cut off one of his fingers for every knuckle he took from Harry.”  
He expects Merlin to start digging in some hidden closet for it, but the older man doesn’t move, just shakes his head. “You won’t be joining us in there, Eggsy.”  
“What?” Merlin’s voice didn’t leave any space for disagreement, but Eggsy disagrees anyway, anger flaring up in his chest, because there is no way he will not go in, will miss the chance to hurt Strnad as much as the man has hurt him, has hurt Harry. “Of course I will.”  
“No. I let you come with us to Slovakia because I know that both you and Harry need that, and because I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop you anyway, but I will not allow you to go in there.” Merlin sighs, puts his hands together as if he was praying, speaks slowly, calmly; it drives Eggsy mad. “You’re angry and that would make you careless, dangerous to both yourself and everyone around you. We need someone in there who isn’t as emotionally compromised as you are right now.”

It makes sense, Eggsy can see that, but can ignore it just the same, too driven by the need to get his hand around Strnad’s throat, watching the life leave his face.   
“Fuck ya”, he spits, hisses, and Merlin doesn’t even flinch. “If it was Elfie in there, being tortured, wouldn’t ya want to go in there and give that bastard back what he had done to her too?”  
“I would”, Merlin admits, then adds, “And I’d want someone else to keep me from doing so.”

 

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and stays behind, not because he sees reason, not because he is convinced, but because Roxy threatens to cuff him to his seat, put a tranquilizer dart in his throat. She’s desperate, and maybe that should be enough to calm him down, but it isn’t - what is, is that if he forces her to make good on her threat, he will still be unconscious once they have brought Harry here and he cannot let that happen.   
He needs to see Harry, needs to hold him, kiss him, make sure that when he presses his ear to Harry’s chest, he can still hear a heartbeat.

So he stays, resists the urge to get himself a drink and listens to Elliot’s words, letting his friend’s voice guide him through the warehouse they are holding Harry in, the sound of gunshots faint and almost drowned out by Elliot’s rapid talking.   
How long it takes until the gunshots have ceased, Eggsy cannot say, since every second seems to stretch out forever, but they do. There is shouting, Elliot yelling “Lancelot, just fuck it”, and then a salve of shots, silence.

“What is happening? Elyan?”, Eggsy demands, knowing he will come to regret the force of his words before they have even left his mouth. “Tell me what the fuck is happening!”  
It takes a few moments, but the answer he gets is one Eggsy would gladly wait for longer too. “They have him. They’ve got Harry.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and can’t remember if he ever cried from relief, but he does now, the tears he has been refusing to let fall finally streaming down his face.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and meets Roxy and Thelma outside of the plane, a new surge of tears blurring his vision when he sees Harry’s limp, battered form in between them. He is hardly even conscious, and Eggsy is glad for it, considering the pain his husband has to be in, but still rushes in, throwing his arms around Harry’s neck and holding on with everything he has.   
There are no words, none that could describe what he is feeling and none he could say, so he doesn’t even try, just presses his lips against the skin of Harry’s neck, buries his face against his shoulder and breathes him in.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and doesn’t let go of Harry, not even when they hook him up to an IV, remove the makeshift bandage from the stumps left of two of Harry’s fingers. He’s shaking and Harry is asleep, and yet he feels like he’s floating, because even if he hasn’t gotten all of Harry back, it’s enough.  
Roxy is at his side the entire time, asks Thelma to go and find the gadgets Strnad has taken from Harry, his wedding ring, and Eggsy is more than glad to let someone else assume control.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and the worst thing when they get back to London is letting go of Harry’s hand. There is a team of doctors waiting for them, a stretcher ready to take Harry to the medical wing, and although being away from Harry feels like losing him again, even Eggsy understands that he cannot come with them.  
He keeps the wedding ring.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and can’t stop pacing the room, not when he knows that there are doctors on the other side, stitching up the wounds Strnad has left on his husband, replacing the knee caps he has smashed with artificial ones. He doesn’t even know what it is that needs to be done, everything having moved so quickly the second they got off the plane, and that is what makes it almost unbearable.   
Because Harry is in there and he can’t do anything to help, only wait and pray to a God he doesn’t believe in for his husband’s life.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and it’s sometime in the middle of the night – both too late and too early for the sky to have lit up again – when a nurse finally comes to see him, her eyes bloodshot and her face pale. For a second, Eggsy expects the worst, but then her lips curl up into a smile.  
“He’s stable”, she tells him, and it takes a few moments for Eggsy to truly understand what she is saying; when he does, the words light him up from the inside, soothing the tenseness, the fear. “Not awake, but you can go and see him, if you want to.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four, looks better and worse at the same time. Better, because there is no blood staining his face, because he doesn’t look like he is in pain, worse because he’s lying there still, hooked up to a variety of machines and what Eggsy sees now seems to blend together with the other times Eggsy has seen Harry like this, vulnerable, tortured.   
The bullet to the head, those dreadful months, they were supposed to be the last time Eggsy had to sit at Harry’s bedside and wait for him to wake up.

And yet, he sits down with a sigh now, feeling the exhaustion creep in. He didn’t dare to sleep while Harry was still being operated on, just in case something went wrong, and even the cups of coffee Elliot and Albert brought around, the hugs Roxy gave before he sent her home to her children, her Harry, could only do so much.   
Gently, just because he doesn’t know what that bastard had done to Harry, Eggsy takes the other’s hand, the one not covered with bandages, squeezes it lightly. When he pays attention, he can feel the faint thrum of Harry’s pulse beneath his skin, and in the end, it’s that what lulls him to sleep.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and wakes up with a start, his back aching and his hand still gripping Harry’s.   
The other is still asleep, and it might be the new day’s light, the relief of seeing Harry back here, but he looks better to Eggsy’s eyes, not even close to healthy, but at least alive.   
“Ya scared the shit out of me”, he tells the other, just like he used to do when Harry was in a coma, when it was unsure if he’d ever be able to reply again. “Really, properly, scared the shit out of me. And this time, it wasn’t even ya fault.”  
There is no answer, and Eggsy curses himself for half-expecting one, squeezes Harry’s hand a little harder. “I dunno if it’ll make ya feel better, but it definitely made me feel better. Roxy put something between four and six bullets in that goddamned bastard’s head. Merlin said he’d let me watch the feed a bit later, but I don’t know if I want to.”

For the first time today and the, oh, thousandth time during those last days, Eggsy feels tears welling up in his eyes, blurring his vision, but this time, he lets them fall.   
“I don’t wanna be reminded of this ever again, I think”, he confesses, although Harry cannot hear him anyway. “I thought I lost ya. I don’t think I can go through that again.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four, doesn’t wake up even when Eggsy carefully settles down next to him, curling up at his side, because it’s still not that kind of movie.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and it’s during the early afternoon that Harry wakes. The nurse has changed the bandages around his fingers, or what is left of them, twice, and Eggsy doesn’t think there has ever been a time in which he has been so glad to be thrown out of a room. But he cannot look, cannot face what permanent damage has been done to Harry.   
If anyone should be hurt, it’s him, he’s the agent, the one who fights, gets stabbed, shot at. Not Harry, who hasn’t been on a proper mission in more years than Eggsy can count, who complains about paper work and how he doesn’t fit in the suits he had made fifteen years ago.

Harry, whose eyes flutter open, still unfocussed, but clear, who squeezes Eggsy’s hand before he even seems to know what has happened to him.   
“Eggsy?”, he croaks out, and Eggsy is upright in a second, grabbing the cup of water next to him and bringing it to Harry’s lips.   
“Yes, babe, I’m here, you’re safe, everything is gonna be just fine”, he mutters, not even thinking about what he is saying, just knowing he has to talk. “We’re back at HQ, Roxy shot that bastard in the head. He can’t do shit anymore.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and holds Harry’s hand while the nurse changes the bandages around his hand again. The other didn’t look down once, but Eggsy is absolutely certain that he knows about the fingers he is missing, the shattered knees.   
He’ll never be the same, and while Eggsy knows he’ll love this new version of Harry just like he loved the old one, he isn’t certain if that is true of Harry too.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and a package arrives at the shop, small and wrapped in brown paper. There is no return address on it, but one of the tailors opens it anyway.   
Inside, there’s a dried up, bloody knuckle of a finger.

In total, they receive five packages.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and helps Harry up, trying his best to ignore it when his husband winces at the pain not even the medication can erase, the burning of the bruises mottling his body, the sting of the various cuts cigarette burns, the shattered and replaced caps of his knees and of course the phantom pain of the fingers he is missing. One and a half of them, taken knuckle by knuckle; Roxy and Thelma came just in time to save Harry from losing the last one of his ring finger as well.   
“Feeling any better?”, Eggsy asks and doesn’t even try to sound cheerful, because he knows it’d be useless – Harry knows him too well by now not to look through the façade. “The doctor I spoke to today, whatever her name is, she said it’s lookin’ good. Especially ya knees, they’re healing well.”  
“They don’t feel like it”, Harry replies, the medication making his speech slow, slurred around the edges, and although Eggsy cannot help but miss the clipped consonants, the sharp precision of his usual accent, just hearing Harry’s voice is enough right now.

“Maybe ya just have to give them some time. Hasn’t even been a full week after all.” Eggsy climbs onto the mattress next to his husband, taking care not to upset his splintered ribs when he lays down next to him, his fingers intertwining with Harry’s. It’s a horrible thing to think and yet Eggsy is glad that Augustín didn’t start with his husband’s right hand. “Ya’ll be better in no time, I just-“  
“Stop, please.” Harry hardly ever interrupts him and yet he does now, sounding tired, not angry. “I know you mean well, Eggsy, but please. Don’t try and pretend this is going to fix itself. It won’t. Not anymore.”  
“Alright.”  Eggsy hates agreeing, but does it anyway, traces the thick veins on the back of Harry’s uninjured hand with his fingertips. “If that’s what ya want.”  
“I do.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four and he is right – his injuries are nothing that just fades over time.   
The last time Eggsy saw him in the hospital, his impossible man coming back from the dead, Harry had been thirteen years younger, and although Eggsy loathes to admit it, his age shows now. Harry’s body has been through a lot and seemingly has forgotten how to forgive being mistreated, since although the injuries Harry has suffered are nothing compared to the bullet to his head, recovery takes much more time.

The bruises turn yellow and the cuts scar over (and oh, there are far more of them than Eggsy realised at first, small ones in between then deeper ones, connecting them like a spider web and in the worst nights he has, when Harry sleeps and is so still Eggsy has to check his breathing from time to time, he can’t help but imagine just what amounts of pain his husband must have gone through in those few days), but although Harry uses the wheelchair he has been given, since he cannot walk on crutches with what Strnad has done to his fingers, he seems tired, almost resigned.  
It’s frustrating for him and Eggsy can see it, but there’s nothing he can do, nothing he can say that isn’t met with resistance, with either a tired plea for him to stop or sometimes, when Harry is in more pain than he’d admit to, a scathing hiss. He always apologises afterwards, but that isn’t, won’t ever be enough as long as Harry won’t stop trying to be stronger than he has to be.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four, sits next to him on one of the benches in gardens that surround Kingsman headquarters, the wheelchair forgotten. He’s rubbing his fingers across the place where his skin and the bandages meet on his palm, something he has been doing ever since the worst pain has subsided, the one that led to nights spent awake, Harry clenching his teeth and not allowing Eggsy to touch him.   
“Ya remember what ya told me before I went to South Africa?”, Eggsy asks, puts his hand on his husband’s thigh, squeezing lightly. Two weeks have passed and yet there are moments in which he needs to touch, needs to make sure that Harry really is beside him. “About going somewhere. Lisbon, I think it was? We could still do that. Pack our stuff once ya knees have healed properly, go and just not think about work for a couple of weeks.”

Harry turns towards him, looking like Eggsy has just dragged him out of a trance; his fingers are still rubbing circles around the bandages.   
“Lisbon?”, he asks and Eggsy nods, smiles although he doesn’t feel like it at all.  “I don’t know, Eggsy. It’s… I don’t know.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Roxy is thirty-nine, lets him lean against her, his head resting on her shoulder.   
“And you really don’t know what is going on with him?”, she asks, her body moving when she takes a sip of tea. “It could be perfectly normal for all I know, he did go through a lot…”  
“I know”, Eggsy replies, feeling just as pitiful as he sounds. “It’s just… I don’t know. Hard to describe. He’s distant, like he has to think about everything, like he has to re-evaluate his whole life or something. Sometimes I talk to him and halfway through, I realise he hasn’t listened to a word I’ve said. That never happened before. And it’s these small things, like…. Like, he pulled his stitches three times, the ones on his fingers, and I know it wasn’t an accident. He keeps taking off the bandages when he’s on his own, like he has to look at what that goddamned fucking arsehole has done to him.”

He sighs, reaches out and steals Roxy’s cup although his own is standing only a few inches away and Roxy drinks her tea far too sweet. “Last night he told me to go home. Go home! As if I ever could go home when he’s still being monitored. And sometimes when he thinks I’m not watching, he just stares out of the window, or at a wall and he looks – he looks broken. And I can’t take it.”  
“I know”, Roxy says, leaves her cup in Eggsy’s hands and takes his instead. “But I also know that after all this time, you’ll figure this out too. Maybe it’s really just his fingers, or the frustration that everything is taking so long, maybe Strnad said something, or did something he hasn’t told you about yet. It’ll be fine, Eggsy, really. You’ll be fine.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four, puts his wedding ring back on the remains of his ring finger, and maybe it’s not really the first time that he smiles at Eggsy after coming back home, but it feels like it.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four and they finally get to go home. It seems like they have been stuck in the medical wing for centuries, to the point where Eggsy has his own bed next to Harry’s, so Eggsy cannot suppress his excitement when they step into the bullet train, Harry walking next to him, even if slowly, carefully. It’s good to see him back on his feet anyway.   
“Ya wanna order food once we get back home?”, Eggsy asks once they have settled down, the steady rumbling and whooshing of the bullet train familiar and welcome, even if Harry is rubbing at the skin of his fingers. The bandages have come off, leaving behind a gnarled scar, which still hurts when touched; why Harry keeps touching it, Eggsy cannot understand.   
“I don’t care either way”, his husband says, which, out of all the answers he could have given, is the worst one. “I’m not hungry.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and they spend the first night in their bed; Harry sleeps with his back to him.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight, lays out prospects for hotels in Lisbon, a map, hopes that Harry will find them while he’s going out for a run, the cold morning air doing at least a little to soothe his nerves. After all these years, it should be the easiest thing in the world to read Harry, to know what the other needs, and while it used to be, it isn’t anymore.  
There are moments in which everything is like it was before Harry was taken, in which Harry smiles at him, brushes his fingers through Eggsy’s hair, but those are always, without fail, followed by silence, by Harry picking at the scar tissue where his pinkie used to be, sometimes until the skin breaks and bleeds.

Maybe it’s the trauma, since there are still more than enough nights in which Harry wakes up, drenched in sweat and screaming, but it feels like more, like there is something _about them_ that Harry is trying to figure out and can’t manage to.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and they have been sleeping in their bed, in their house for just a little over a week when Eggsy wakes up in the morning to find Harry watching him. There is still a hint of a scar on his cheek where Strnad hit him, but right now it’s the only thing that reminds Eggsy of what happened, because unlike so often during these last two months, Harry is looking at him with the kind of affection he is used to seeing in the other man’s face.   
“Mornin’”, he mutters, smiles and leans in to kiss Harry softly, chastely, because neither of them got around to brush their teeth yet. And Harry lets him, even brings up his unmarred hand to cup Eggsy’s face, fingertips fluttering across Eggsy’s cheekbones.

When they pull apart, there is a stupidly wide smile on Eggsy’s lips, one of the kind he cannot contain, and although Harry isn’t smiling back, he isn’t dropping his hand either. And it feels like permission, so Eggsy does what he has been longing to do for ages – reaches out to drag his hand down Harry’s chest, feeling the beat of his heart against his palm, the scratch of the sparse hair around his nipples, the soft, slightly loose skin stretched across Harry’s stomach. He feels like always and that alone is enough to spark a fire in Eggsy’s abdomen, just because it has been _so long_.   
Again, he kisses his husband, and again Harry kisses back, lets Eggsy touch him, drag his palm over Harry’s sides, up to pinch his nipples lightly, to scratch his fingernails over that sensitive spot just below Harry’s collarbone.   
It’s like he is relearning the form of his husband’s body, discovering him anew.

There is no need to rush, so Eggsy takes his time, replaces his hand with his mouth and kisses down the line of Harry’s throat, nips at his jaw and licks, sucks his way down the other’s body, every nerve in his body singing with the pleasure of being so close to one another again.

How much time has passed until he has reached the hem of Harry’s pyjama’s, he cannot say, but when he looks up, his husband’s eyes are on him, dark and fond, and again, Eggsy takes it as permission, eases the trousers down to reveal Harry’s cock.   
It’s still soft, but that doesn’t matter – even before this, it has taken Harry longer to get hard most days, so Eggsy is familiar with all the tricks he can use to get a response out of the other. He licks across the head, teases the slit with the tip of his tongue, before he leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses down the side of the shaft.

His own cock is heavy between his legs, dripping precome already, and Eggsy closes his lips around the head of Harry’s cock and sucks, moaning at the feeling, the taste, the knowledge that even Strnad wasn’t able to destroy them. One of his hands finds its way between Harry’s legs, cradling his balls and massaging them with every small bob of his head, Harry’s wet shaft sliding in and out of his mouth.   
Usually, there is at least some kind of response by now, the delicious feeling of his husband’s cock swelling between his lips, stretching them wide and wider, but not today, so Eggsy picks up his pace, swirls his tongue around the head, rubs his fingers against that sensitive spot just behind Harry’s balls.

His jaw is just beginning to hurt when there is a hand in his hair, just three fingers instead of five, and Harry says, “Eggsy, stop, this isn’t – this won’t – just stop, please.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four, only looks at him when he comes down to the breakfast Eggsy has prepared. His hair is perfectly coiffed, his face calm and collected, and Eggsy knows better than to try and talk about it.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and insists on taking Harry’s hand when they walk to the shop; his husband still has to attend his physiotherapy sessions and Eggsy won’t allow Harry to keep him out of it, no matter how hard he tries.   
“After ya done, maybe we could go and grab something to eat”, Eggsy says, keeping his voice as chipper as he possibly can. “Or maybe pick up some pastries and I call Daisy to see if she’s got plans for today. Y’know, she’s got this boy she fancies, and I’ve been wanting to ask how it’s going with him for ages.”

Harry’s hand is soft in his, familiar, at least until his husband pulls it away, looking at Eggsy only for a second, fleeting. “Maybe you should take her out, darling. You haven’t seen her too often and you know that these sessions always tire me out, I’d rather go and lay down once it’s over. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go and enjoy yourself. I can make it back home on my own, don’t worry.”  
It’s just words, and not even the worst they have ever said to each other, and yet they make Eggsy’s heart plummet, his feet suddenly feeling like they’re almost too heavy for him to lift. Something has changed between them, and Eggsy can only hope that it’s not permanent.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and knows that something is oh so wrong when he sees Merlin approaching, the other’s posture tense, his expression guarded; whatever he is here about, he’d rather he wasn’t.   
“What’s up?”, Eggsy asks once the other is close enough, looks up at Merlin from his usual chair in the medical wing, a half-finished report in his hands and Harry on the other side of the wall, doing his exercises and hopefully not snapping at the physiotherapist.   
“I need you on a mission.”   
There is no sugar-coating it, no excuses or apologies, and Eggsy appreciates it, even if the words feel like a punch to the gut. The mere thought of leaving Harry alone is sickening.

It takes a moment to swallow down the irrational anger Merlin does not deserve, then Eggsy asks, “Do I have to? I know ya tried to keep me off the roster for as long as ya could and I appreciate it, really, but I just… we need a bit more time. Harry says he’s alright, but I know he isn’t, I can feel it. There’s something wrong and I just… I need to be here. With him. Please.”  
“I know.” Merlin claps a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it, and mentally, Eggsy starts packing, starts freaking out. “It’s nothing major, just a small thing so you’ll be back before you know it. But there’s just no one else who can take it. I’m sorry. I’ll keep an eye on Harry for you.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and finishes his mission in record time. Just like Merlin said, it’s a small, almost trivial one, escorting an actress whose name Eggsy thinks he might have heard in passing from one city to the next and using his cover as a body guard to meet up with one of Kingsman’s informants.  
The actress is sweet enough to let him go without asking any questions, putting a slip of paper with her telephone number in Eggsy’s hand when he says goodbye, but she still nods her head in understanding when Eggsy raises his hand to show her his wedding ring.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four, asks, “And, how did the mission go?”  
They are having dinner, a simple kind of pasta Eggsy whipped up from what was still in the fridge, and it feels good to be back home.  
“Okay, I guess? Nothing much happened, really. Swapped intel and went back home. The actress, Olivia, she wanted to give me her phone number, which was a little bit adorable, to be honest. I mean, she’s what, twenty or something?” Eggsy grins, reaches out to quickly squeeze Harry’s hand, the unmarred one, because Harry doesn’t like it when he touches the other one, although he still hasn’t found out if the other is still in pain, or if it is something else, something worse. “Told her I was married and she was rather cool about it, though.”

“Ah”, Harry says, hardly any reaction in Eggsy’s opinion; for a second, he smiles. “Well, I cannot fault her for her taste.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and finds his old black-and-gold jacket in the back of the closet when he searches for a sweater to lend Daisy for her way back home. It’s still soft, although the colours have faded, and Eggsy can feels his lips turn up in a smile, his heart warm with affection, with good memories.   
How he could just forget about it he doesn’t know, but now Eggsy takes the jacket out of his closet, holds it to his face and breathes in the almost unnoticeable smell of a laundry detergent they haven’t used for years.

  
Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four, sighs when Merlin hands him the cane the tech department has been working on for the last months, ever since it became clear that the damage done to Harry’s knees wouldn’t be undone with a new set of joints.   
“I’ve never felt this old before”, his husband confesses and it feels like he wants to say more and yet doesn’t know how to. “I always intended to die before I needed a cane.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and it feels more than strange to wrap a hand around his own cock in the shower, giving himself a few, lazy strokes. But it’s been weeks and Eggsy doesn’t dare to ask Harry for anything more than the occasional kiss, not after what happened last time, not after the look Harry gave him.  
So instead of riding his husband’s cock like he wants to, Eggsy reaches behind himself and rubs two fingertips across his hole, wishing, just like he does in every second he spends awake, for things to go back to normal.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry is sixty-four, says, “You should get out of the house more often, Eggsy. There’s no reason for you to be stuck here too, just because I don’t feel like going out.”  
“What? Nonsense.” Eggsy shakes his head, looks up from his tablet and gives Harry a smile, not knowing if it looks as desperate as he feels. If he could, he’d get up and sit back down on Harry’s lap, kiss him until he’s forgotten everything about that strange idea. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here with ya.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and wakes up because there are hands gripping at him, pulling him closer. For a second, his body wants to flee, to fight, until he realises it’s Harry’s hands, it’s Harry’s chest he is suddenly pressed against, his uneven breaths stirring Eggsy’s hair.   
It’s Harry, who must have woken from another one of the nightmares he will not tell Eggsy about, who isn’t crying, but still shaking violently.

Without thinking, Eggsy wraps his arms around his husband and presses a kiss to his temple, his forehead, and wishes he didn’t feel sickening relief at just being allowed to hold Harry again.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Harry falls asleep again next to him, their limbs tangled and their fingers intertwined, and it takes every ounce of strength he possesses for him not to break down. Because he loves Harry to the point where he feels he might burst and yet cannot do anything to take his husband’s pain away.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Merlin sends him off to another mission, another small, stupid thing in Bangladesh that someone else could have done, who doesn’t have a husband at home, who spends hours staring at the wall, scratching scar after scar onto his marred hand.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Roxy turns forty. Haz organises a party Roxy didn’t want in the first place and yet enjoys, and they end up getting so drunk that Eggsy feels hung over for two days straight.

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and James Crawley makes it to the last two candidates for Bors’ position. They could, should spend twenty-four hours together, but Eggsy lets Elliot take his place and goes home instead, finding Harry in his study.   
There is a glass of whiskey next to him, a stack of paperwork in front of him, but it only takes a single glance for Eggsy to know that Harry hasn’t taken even a look at the folders, but instead must be at the third or fourth glass.

“Hello, babe”, he greets and steps into the room, melancholy tugging at his heart when Harry whips around, the alcohol slowing his movements down. “Crawley’s an insufferable arse like always, so I left Elliot to take care of him, and came home instead. How have ya been?”  
There is no answer for a few long moments, long enough for Eggsy to cross the distance between them and perch onto the edge of Harry’s desk.   
Something changes in Harry’s gaze, softens and grows sorrowful, then the other mutters, “I don’t deserve you. I never have.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-eight and Crawley gets the job. Harry looks ready to murder someone for the rest of the day, Merlin spends hours upon hours considering how to spend the money this new knight brings them and Elliot doesn’t walk straight for the next two days.

 

Eggsy turns thirty-nine and Harry wakes him up with a kiss, breakfast in bed. There is still something off about the way Harry looks at him, but there are kisses, fond looks, and it might just be the best day Eggsy had since Harry had been taken.  

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Merlin comes to see him on one of the few days he spends at HQ nowadays. His expression is distraught although he hides it well, just not well enough, and Eggsy braces himself for whatever terrible thing life feels like throwing at him next.   
“There is a mission”, the older man tells him the second he has closed the door behind him. “One you won’t like. I still need you to take it.”  
“I’m not going into deep cover again, not yet. If the world is gonna end otherwise then I suggest ya find someone else to do it ‘cause I won’t.”  
“It’s not a deep cover mission.”

Merlin sighs, doesn’t sit down, and oh, this is bad, this is very bad. “It’s… oh Jesus, I don’t even know how to tell you. It’s a fucking honeypot. Middle-aged man, conventionally attractive, likes to –“  
“No.”  
The word has left Eggsy’s lips before he has even processed what it is Merlin is telling him; he doesn’t need more information, because there is no way he’s going to do it.   
“Eggsy…”, Merlin tries, gentle and understanding, as if Eggsy was a child that needed convincing to let go of his father’s hand to ride his bike on his own for the very first time.   
“No”, Eggsy repeats, because he’s not that and because he will not go and fuck some stranger when he has a husband at home who is going through some crisis he cannot quite understand. Who keeps trying to get him out of the house, push him away. “Send Crawley. Send Albert. Send literally anyone but me because I won’t do it.  I’m not gonna go out there and spread my legs for king and country, not again. Not when Harry is – well whatever it is he is doing. Does he even know about this? Because I swear-“  
“Eggsy”, Merlin interrupts him, and it sounds like he is telling a secret. “Eggsy, he does. It was Harry’s idea to send you on that mission in the first place.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and storms into Harry’s study, livid with anger and sick with worry that has been piling up those last months, never quite ebbing off. He has tried to give Harry time, has tried to understand, but this is a step too far.   
“What the actual fuck?”, he hisses out as soon as Harry has looked up, stopping in the middle of the room, because he doesn’t trust himself to get to close to his husband, not right now. “Care to explain why ya would want to send me off on a three month long mission playing the fucking boyfriend of a fucking billionaire when ya still wake up every other night, shakin’ and terrified? Three months, Harry, three fucking months! Leaving ya on ya own here. I don’t fucking think so.”

Harry looks up at him, calm and so collected it makes Eggsy’s skin crawl, because this is his professional face, the one he wears for meetings with presidents and heads of state, not the open, warm expression Eggsy has gotten used to.  
“I can assure you, Eggsy, that I am absolutely capable of getting on for a few months on my own. And you are the best suited agent we have for this mission, it’s as simple as that, and I cannot treat you differently just because we’re married – “  
“Bullshit.” Eggsy crosses his arms in front of his chest, desperation clawing at his chest, because this is more than just the mission, this is everything that has happened between them in the last months finally boiling over, becoming too much to take. “Don’t even fucking try, Harry. Do ya really think I didn’t notice that ya have been trying to keep me out those past months? I don’t know what has been going on with ya, but don’t insult me by thinkin’ I don’t know that something _is_ wrong.”

“You’re mistaken, there is nothing-“  
“Don’t ya fuckin’ dare.” Eggsy’s voice is a hiss, hardly more, but it makes Harry shut up, his mask still in place, but slowly crumbling. “I should have said this a month ago, maybe two, but if ya don’t tell me what is wrong now then I swear I’m outta here and I’ll spend the night at Roxy’s.”  
It’s supposed to be a threat, the worst one Eggsy could possibly make, but it doesn’t have the effect it should have, doesn’t have Harry get up and tell him no, please, they can set this right again. Instead, the other sighs, drags a palm across his face and says, “Maybe that would be for the best.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and spends his night at Roxy’s place, arriving there with red-rimmed eyes and tears he refuses to let spill still clouding his vision.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and his phone rings the next day, waking him up when he should still be recovering. It’s Harry, who doesn’t even greet, just says, “Eggsy, we need to talk.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and finds Harry in the living room, a glass of whiskey in front of him although it’s barely past eleven. The other doesn’t look like he has slept a second the night before, dark circles around his eyes and the stumps of his fingers scratched bloody, only looking up at him when Eggsy is standing right in front of him. And still, his expression is unreadable, which makes Eggsy’s skin crawl with the unfamiliarity of it.  
“So?”, Eggsy prompts when he steps into the room, not greeting because it’d feel too domestic for the occasion, like he just stayed over at Roxy’s because he felt like it. “What did ya want to talk about?”

There is a pause that goes on for too long, betrays just how much time must have passed since Harry last slept; when his husband finally speaks, it’s slow, careful, and the worst thing Eggsy might ever have heard. “I’ve been thinking. And I think it might be the best in this situation – for both of us – if you left.”  
“What?” There are no words, nothing Eggsy could say, because this cannot be happening, there is no way Harry could ever say this, even less of a way he could mean it. “Ya can’t be serious.”  
“I am.”   
It’s the strangest of feelings, one that shouldn’t exist, because Eggsy feels like he is being ripped apart, his heart crumbling and shattering, and yet he is numb, unfeeling, unable to comprehend what it is Harry is asking of him and unable to understand why he would ever consider to do so. But even through the pounding of the blood in his ears, Eggsy can hear that Harry sounds like he is breaking, like this is as difficult for him to say as it is for Eggsy to hear; none of this makes any _sense_.   
“What do ya mean, like, for now? To give ya more space? Because I can do that, I can, as long as ya don’t mean-“

_Forever_ , he wants to say, but the word dies on the tip of his tongue, because it never should have gotten there in the first place, shouldn’t have any reason to be uttered in the same breath as _leave_.   
It’s impossibly hard to look at Harry, but at the same time, Eggsy cannot look away, trying to find a way to reconcile this Harry with the one he fell in love with, the one he married.   
“Eggsy…”, the other man says, but he won’t have it, won’t allow Harry to do this without at least making him understand.   
“No”, he tells his husband like he told Merlin the day before before, but this time, there is less passion in the word, more disbelief. “Ya don’t get to do this, not to me. What the hell happened in there, with Strnad? Because something must’ve happened since as far as I remember, we were fucking happy before. _I_ was happy and ya can’t tell me ya didn’t feel the same way.”

He swallows down past the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, and although Harry’s form is blurry, it’s not enough to make his expression unreadable –Harry looks pained, looks broken and yet determined, a combination Eggsy has never seen before.  
“What happened, Harry?”, he asks again, softly, tonelessly. “Don’t tell me ya just stopped lovin’ me, ‘cause I won’t believe it.”

“I haven’t”, Harry says, every word precise, deliberate, like he has put twice as much thought into it than he usually would. Like he has rehearsed them all night, going over them time and time again until he thought they were right. “As far as I can tell right now, I’ll never stop loving you. But that doesn’t make a difference, it just explains why I’ve been too selfish to see it before.”  
Harry sighs, a sound that is almost as painful as watching the other suffer at the hand of that psychopath was, and Eggsy wants to come closer, but doesn’t dare too. “Eggsy, you deserve so much more than this. Your mother was right all along, and I was just too wrapped up in you, in this, to realise that no matter how much I’d love you, I’d ruin you in the end.”

His voice trails off and _none of it makes sense_ , because Eggsy hasn’t seen his mother apart from the occasional coldly civil meeting when picking up Daisy from the house, because as far as he knows, Harry hasn’t spoken with her just as long.   
“Ya didn’t ruin anything”, Eggsy tells him when Harry won’t continue, heart aching and head feeling like he is missing something important, that one detail to finally help him make sense of this. “Not yet. Ya couldn’t, and I don’t deserve anything more or less than what I have, which is ya as my husband.”

It’s only when Harry looks at him, really looks at him, that Eggsy realises how much time has passed since he last did that, how much he missed it, even if Harry looks like is every word he says is shattering his heart into smaller pieces, like it takes all his strength to continue talking.   
“You do, and I know you don’t feel that way now, but you will one day. Look at me, Eggsy. I’m an old, crippled man, whose body is slowly failing him, piece by piece, not the one you met in front of that police station. I can’t remember the name of the brand of tea you asked me to get on Saturday, and yesterday, after you left, I stumbled twice on my way back to the kitchen because I had forgotten to take my cane with me.”  
Harry lets his eyes flutter shut for a second, like he has to take a break from looking at Eggsy, like this is too much. “I’m withering away, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot deny it anymore. And one day, be it in a year, be it in five, you’ll wake up and look over to see someone sleeping next to you, who you will hardly be able to recognise and I can’t fault you for that. But I’d rather spare myself the pain of forcing you to start feeding me, and I’d rather have you walk out when you’re still young enough to start anew.”

Harry’s voice fades off, like he cannot possibly go on, but Eggsy ignores how drained, how wrecked he looks, because it finally makes sense, everything, and Eggsy, oh, Eggsy should have known.   
Almost as long as he has known Harry, the other has been fighting his age, trying to pretend that the years passed him by quietly, unlike they did with everyone around him, but Eggsy never thought it this serious, suspects that it never was – until Strnad, his cleaver and hammer and fists showed Harry just how much weaker his body had become over the past decade or two.   
How much time it had taken to recover from the damage he had taken and how much help he had needed from everyone around him, Roxy and Thelma to rescue him, Merlin to find him, Eggsy to take care of all the rest.   
It must have been the last straw, the final bit to make everything too much.

A wave of affection floods him, filling him up from the tips of his toes to the last atoms of his eyelashes, because all of this is Harry, the man who found him and decided to keep him – dramatic and too stubborn to be true, but in the end, when it comes down to it, willing to sacrifice everything to keep him safe.  
Without thinking, Eggsy takes a step forward, and Harry  leans back in his chair as if trying to put more distance between them, says in his softest voice, “Eggsy, please. Leave. I won’t have the strength to say this again.”  
“Then don’t.”

Another step forward, another, and then Eggsy crouches down in front of Harry, who averts his eyes, like the silly, vain, wonderful man he is, trying to be strong one more time.   
“Leave, please”, he repeats and Eggsy takes his hands, both of them, and brings them to his lips, pressing a kiss to the injured one.   
“I won’t. Not now, not ever”, he tells Harry, ignoring the tears that are flowing down his cheeks again, although not because he feels like he is suffocating, but because for the first time in months, he can breathe. “I should have told ya this a long time ago, probably right after I told my mum. ‘Cause she said the same things to me, y’know, about waking up and noticing that ya are old and wrinkly and not what I wanted after all, at least not forever. But the things is, Harry, babe, I’ve known that since the beginning. I fell in love with ya knowing ya were so, so much older than me, I moved in here and watched ya go grey and have trouble with ya knees and ya eyes and all the rest, and it never bothered me a bit, because it doesn’t matter a bit. It doesn’t change ya, and it doesn’t change me and it sure as hell doesn’t change the fact that I love ya so incredibly much that when I saw ya on that feed, tied up, tortured, I would’ve given everythin’ to take ya place. Because it means nothing to me if I’m fine, if ya aren’t. So yeah, I’m gonna spare ya the pain of me leaving, but permanently. Till death does us part. Ya fuckin’ saviour complex riddled idiot.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and this isn’t over, a few words cannot change something that has been going on for months, has been brewing unnoticed by him for years, but they make it better, at least for now. Because there are tears gathered in the corners of Harry’s eyes, and yet he lets Eggsy climb onto his lap, lets Eggsy kiss him, touch him.  
And wraps his arms around Eggsy’s waist to hold him close, shoulders shaking with sobs he must have held back for months.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without trying to sound as whiny as I probably do, if that last scene did suck, I honestly apologise, but I've been agonising over it for about two and a half hours in total and wrote at least four versions of it and this was the one I thought was most acceptable.   
> Apart from that, whoops and I am very sorry for putting Harry through all this, I guess?


	18. Chapter 18

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry is sixty-four, repeats a sentence Eggsy never wanted to hear again.   
“I’ll never deserve you”, he says and breaks Eggsy’s heart with it, because Harry means it, he can see that. They aren’t touching although they’re in bed, and Eggsy wants to rectify it, and yet doesn’t dare to. This is like nothing they have ever gone through, and it’s scary, because although Harry is allowing it now, is letting him stay and is giving them another chance, it doesn’t mean he cannot change his mind at any given time.   
“Will it help if I say that ya do?”, he asks, and Harry gives him a wan smile.  
“It wouldn’t. But thank you anyway.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine, and the first thing he feels when he wakes up the next day is panic, because the bed next to him is empty, the sheets mussed but Harry not between them. There is a moment in which he truly thinks his husband is gone, imagines a note left on the nightstand, their closet missing half its content, but then he sees the light shining through the door of the bathroom, the soft sound of the tap running.  
Usually, it takes quite some time for Eggsy to make it out of bed, especially when there are no meetings, no appointments he has to attend, but he’s on his feet within seconds, fuelled by the relief rushing through him. They have to fix this, because Eggsy doesn’t know how much longer he can take the fear of losing Harry.

Harry, who he finds in front of the mirror styling his hair, and it takes all Eggsy has in him not to walk over and wrap his arms around Harry’s waist, rest his chin on the other’s shoulder. Instead, he stays right where he is, near the door, and waits for Harry to look up, eyes meeting through the mirror.   
“Ya know”, Eggsy says after a few seconds, ignores how scratchy and rough his voice sounds, “I can’t possibly know who ya see when ya look in the mirror, but I see the man who gave me a new life, who saved me, supported me, allowed me to become the best version of myself. And who loved me all through it, and if that’s not the man who deserves me, then I dunno who could.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry is sixty-four, looks tired when he says, “Please, Eggsy. It’s just HQ, nothing special. But I need just a little bit of time to myself.”  
There are a thousand things Eggsy wants to say, wants to beg for, but in the end, none of them makes it past his lips, because even after all this, Harry still knows how to read him, adds, “I’m not going to disappear, Eggsy. I promise. I’ll be back for supper.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry keeps his promise, is home at quarter past seven and joins Eggsy in the kitchen to slice peppers for the stew he is preparing without a question. It’s strange, because it’s still tense between them, just a different kind of tense, one that feels more like waiting, like hoping.  
“So, how did therapy go?”, Eggsy finally asks, because it feels wrong to stay silent, even while he cuts up the chicken breasts.   
“Alright, I’d say”, Harry replies, and Eggsy has almost given up on getting anything more of an answer out of his husband when Harry continues. “I told Doctor Fisher all about last night. He was… I wouldn’t say pleased, but he called it progress anyway.”

Now Eggsy doesn’t know Doctor Cole Fisher too well, only had a short chat with him after a mission that hadn’t quite gone to plan, but he knows the reputation which proceeds the man.   
“He called ya a cunt, didn’t he?”, Eggsy asks and looks up at the other, who responds without missing a beat.   
“Yes, he did.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Roxy is forty, calls him after the twins are sleeping. She’s just come back from a mission in Belarus, and it’s good to hear her voice, even if she sounds exhausted, half asleep.   
“….what?”, she asks once Eggsy has finished telling her about the last week’s events, and Eggsy is grateful to find out that she is as surprised by them as he was. “I always expected something to happen about that, a long talk or maybe a fight even, but not this. He really asked you to leave?”  
“Yeah”, Eggsy replies, his heart contracting painfully at just the thought. “Made it sound like he’d thought about it for weeks at least, dead serious and all that. Scared the shit out of me, because I never thought – especially after we got married, y’know, I didn’t think he’d be so willing to give up everything again.”

“Me neither.” There is a second of silence, just the telly in the background playing some action movie, then Roxy says, “Do you think you solved it?  Not completely, obviously, but enough to go on.”  
It’s the same question Eggsy asked himself more times than he can count during these last days, and although Roxy can’t see him, he shakes his head slowly, sadly. “I dunno, Rox, that’s the worst thing about it. I hope so, but I dunno.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry turns sixty-five on a cool, clear day. Neither of them mentions it, but Eggsy is certain they both think about it, about what one more year could mean for them.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Merlin, maybe Harry, send him off on a mission to Puerto Rico. He leaves after insisting on getting a goodbye kiss from Harry, not certain if he’ll see the other again, comes back with his heart racing and his palms sweaty, because he still isn’t sure, _can’t_ be sure.   
But Harry is still there, working away on his computer with dark bags under his eyes, which tell Eggsy just how bad the nightmares must have been those past days.   
He’s relieved anyway.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and waits until their anniversary. It’s supposed to be one of their happiest days, they’re supposed to go out, maybe to Orisini, eat and drink and afterwards make love in their bed, or the couch, or some flat surface that will leave them both complaining the next morning. Instead Eggsy stays home and cooks some simple pasta dish, sets the table without wine glasses, because as much as he’d like to get wasted right now, they both have to keep a clear head for this.  
Because they need to talk, to set this right, since Eggsy just cannot take the situation much longer.

It might be a good sign, might be a bad one that Harry knows what he has planned the second he glances at the table.   
“You want to talk?”, he asks Eggsy, who feels like a schoolboy again, small and too young, too nervous, but who nods anyway.   
“Yeah. We need to.”  
Harry gives him a wistful look, one which Eggsy cannot decipher, then agrees. “I suppose we do.”

Without another word he sits down, lets Eggsy load his plate with pasta, watches while Eggsy dishes himself out a similarly sized portion – Eggsy wonders if Harry notices that he is holding the pot the way he showed him years ago, tilted and so that, if he should let the pasta drop, should let the sauce spill, it’d always land on the plate. Wonders if Harry knows just how much he shaped him into the man he is today.   
“Bon apetit”, Eggsy says once he has sat down, another phrase Harry has taught him, and it makes the other smile, even if just a little bit.  
They eat in silence, neither uncomfortable nor comfortable, just tense, Eggsy forcing down bite after bite, because Kingsman has taught him just how little he can trust his body when it comes to this. Just because he isn’t hungry, it doesn’t mean his body doesn’t need to be fed. Every so often, he sneaks a glance to Harry, the glasses perched on his nose, the dark eyes, the sagging skin of his cheeks, his throat. He’s gorgeous.

“So”, Harry finally says, puts down his cutlery and looks at Eggsy, his face having slipped back into some unreadable kind of mask, something Eggsy hates more with every second he has to look at it. “Do you want to start, or shall I?”  
“I will.” It’s no question, because Eggsy doesn’t know if he’ll have the strength to tell Harry all he wants to say if he has to listen to his husband put himself down for another few minutes first. He takes a deep breath, leans back and keeps his eyes on Harry’s face, even when it hurts not to see the usual fondness reflected in it.   
“I love ya”, Eggsy starts, because he can’t ever say it often enough, especially not now when he doesn’t know to what extent Harry believes him. “I’ve loved ya since I was twenty-five, possibly longer, to the point where the memories I have before we met, before I started loving ya, seem distant, like they are missing something because ya not in them. And I know that that scares ya – it scares me too, sometimes.”  
There is no sign that Harry is even listening, so Eggsy just continues, ignoring how his throat feels tight, his eyes are burning. “But it feels like it should be that way, ya know? ‘Cause ya the man who made me into what I am today, who _allowed_ me to become this. Ya as much part of me as my inability to admit that Daisy is far better at video games than I am is. And I wouldn’t change that for the world.”

He pauses, because he thought all this over and over, how to say everything he needed to say without giving Harry a single reason to doubt, but it’s harder than expected, feels like every wrong word could send his husband walking. And Harry… Harry doesn’t give him anything, no smile, no kind look, just silence, which is better than some things and yet worse than most.  
“I know that sometimes, when ya look at me, ya still see a recruit”, Eggsy says softly, gives in to the urge to reach out and take Harry’s hand, just because it he feels a bit like he is breaking apart, needs to feel that Harry is still here with him. “The boy ya picked up from the streets, who’s got more courage than actual skill, and I like that, Harry, I do. Makes me feel like I did when we started this. Like ya my rock, the one thing that will always be there, no matter what. To keep an eye on me, make sure I’m alright. But the thing is, I’m not that boy anymore. I haven’t been in a long time. ‘Cause it’s not just ya who grew older, but me as well, we grew older together and the thought that ya want to… to lock me out, to take away my chance to spend as much time as I can with the man I love, it breaks my heart, Harry. It hasn’t always been easy and it won’t be from now on, but it’s been worth it and if ya let me, I’ll make sure that the next ten, the next twenty years are going to be just as great.”

Harry hasn’t pulled his hands away and Eggsy counts that as a good sign, squeezes the other’s fingers softly and allows himself to hope. “I could spend twice as much time with someone else at my side, and I know that, Harry, but it wouldn’t mean a thing, ‘cause I wouldn’t be with ya.”  
He’s desperate and sounds like it, but maybe it’s just enough, because Harry is looking at him and he doesn’t look unaffected anymore, looks more like Eggsy ripped his heart a bit further apart with every word. His fingers tighten around Eggsy’s the slightest bit, like a muscle memory he cannot control, and Eggsy’s soul sings with it.

There are a few seconds in which neither of them speaks, Eggsy because his carefully prepared speech is finished, because it’s all up to Harry now, the other maybe, hopefully, because he is starting to understand.  
“I believe you”, Harry finally says, every word pronounced carefully, consonants clipped and vowels clear, precise. “And maybe that is what makes it worse. I am going to die, Eggsy, not today, maybe not for another five, ten, fifteen years, but I am going to die, and I am going to die before you do. It’s not a question, it’s a fact, and it breaks my heart, because if you really feel that way, if this is what you want, then… then you will have to watch me waste away slowly, and I won’t be able to do anything to stop it, my heart.”  
Harry’s gaze has dropped to their hands, fingers intertwined, the wedding ring on Eggsy’s finger gleaming golden, silver. It’s been months since Eggsy last heard that term of endearment from his husband’s lips. “I don’t want to put you through this. I don’t want to go on, knowing that one day, you’ll find my dead body next to you, because I know that if it was the other way around, if I lost you, it would- I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Harry still isn’t looking at him but Eggsy has hardly ever felt the loss of his eyes on him, of the small quirk of a smile on his lips as intensely as he does now; there is a bone-deep sadness in Harry’s voice, one that his husband must have carried with him for a long, long time.   
“I will”, Eggsy replies without thinking twice; he isn’t sure if he’s telling the truth, or just the version of it Harry has to hear. But whatever it is, he can feel the weight of those words, a pressure behind his eyes, a tightness of his throat, all the tears he’ll spill when he has to make good of the promise he is making. “I don’t know how, but I will, if that is what ya need. It’s going to break me, I know it will, but I’ll survive it, if you want me to.”  
His voice sounds shaky; if he could, he’d never talk about this, never let himself face that getting older is not where their problem stops, but for Harry, he can, he will.   
“But you know what would kill me, babe?”, Eggsy adds and looks down, looks everywhere but at Harry. “If I wasn’t there with ya when ya died. If I had to find out from Merlin that the man I loved almost my entire life, died without me at his side, holding his hand. I can make it through anything at all, but not when ya push me away. I’d rather find ya dead next to me one morning, knowing that we lived as much of our lives together as we could, than spare myself the pain and have missed a moment with ya. So don’t make me, Harry, please. Just give me this. Let me stay.”

The fingers around his own loosen, and it feels like letting go forever, makes Eggsy’s heart freeze up mid-beat; when he looks up to watch Harry leave, his husband is walking around the table, sinking down on his aching knees in front of Eggsy. There are tears shining in his eyes, and Eggsy feels like crying, cannot move.   
So he lets Harry take his hand with both of his, eight fingers closing around Eggsy’s ten, and it’s almost too much to take.  
“I don’t think I could ever make you leave if you didn’t want to”, Harry says, the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips, and there’s no way to hold back the tears anymore, so Eggsy stops trying.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry is sixty-five, and they end up on the floor together, Eggsy’s face buried in the crook of his husband’s neck, Harry’s arms around him. It’s the most comfortable he has been in months.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and they wake up in the middle of the time, dried tears still staining his cheeks, making it difficult to open his eyes when Harry beneath him stirs. His back is sore, his joints aching, but Eggsy feels like he’s about to burst with happiness when he breathes in and smells a hint of Harry’s aftershave, when he turns a little bit and feels his husband shift beneath him.   
“Ya wanna get up?”, he asks with a hoarse voice, reaches up to blindly put his hand to the side of Harry’s face, brushing his thumb across the other’s cheekbone. “’Cause I dunno about ya back, but mine is not happy right now.”

There is a second of silence while Harry turns his head, presses a tiny kiss to Eggsy’s palm, making his heart flutter, then he mutters, “God, yes. Let’s go to bed.”  
Still, they stay where they are, neither of them moving, until Eggsy finally sits up, groaning when his body complains at the treatment.   
“Shit, we’re getting’ old, aren’t we?”, he comments, and almost regrets it, until Harry chuckles, reaches up and pulls Eggsy down again, against his chest. Eggsy goes willingly, laughing and burying his face in Harry’s shirt, letting the tears that are spilling down his tears once more soak into the fabric.   
It feels like falling in love all over again.   
“But you don’t get to complain about that, my heart, not anymore. And that’s your own fault.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and he wakes up a second time on the floor, still curled up in Harry’s arms. The sun is rising and it doesn’t feel like a new day, it feels like a new life.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry is sixty-five and they make breakfast together. Not everything has changed, but Eggsy didn’t expect it to, so he just enjoys the easy familiarity of working next to Harry, of sneaking a quick kiss and feeling his husband smile against his lips.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and spends the day at HQ, doing the paperwork he has been neglecting during the last months. It’s not easy to concentrate and yet easier than it used to be, at least until Elliot drops by his office  with a stack of folders and two cups of chai balancing on it precariously.   
“Morning – or rather, afternoon, Eggsy, my man”, the other greets, puts down the papers and the cups with a  clank, a bit of chai spilling over and dribbling down onto a folder Eggsy is certain isn’t too important. “Something really strange just happened to me. Your husband walked past me in the hall and smiled. What’s up with that? You finally made up?”  
“Cheers”, Eggsy tells him with a nod towards the tea, picks up the cup and can’t help but grin; Harry is happy and that makes him almost giddy. “And yeah, we did. Sort of. We had a long talk and a bit of a cuddle, and I feel a bit like a twat to be honest, we should’ve done that ages ago.”

“Was it still about the age thing?”, Elliot asks and sits down on the edge of the desk, raising one groomed eyebrow – he’s waxing them nowadays, ever since Crawley happened, and thinks that no one notices.   
“Yeah. And the even worse thing about, well. Dying.”  
“Oh. _Oh_.” Elliot looks honestly shocked, and Eggsy wants to hug him all of a sudden, because they have been through so much, Elliot even more than him, and the fact that he can sit here, sip chai and still call Elliot his friend, one of the best he ever had, is amazing. “Jesus, Eggsy, I’m so sorry. Didn’t even think about it, but sure, that’s… that’s a problem.”  
“Yeah.” Eggsy takes another drink, gives Elliot a wry smile. “It is. I didn’t want to think about it at all, but I guess… well, apparently it was a bigger problem for Harry. He’s scared for me and thinks he might fuck me up. I just hope that he knows by now that he really isn’t doin’ that.”  
“Can’t say anything about that”, Elliot replies, “But it seems that whatever ya told him, it definitely made him more than happy.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry is sixty-five and they order pizza that’s so greasy even Eggsy agrees to eat it with cutlery instead of with his hands. Both their backs are hurting enough that they end up on the couch instead of the dining room, Eggsy’s legs across Harry’s lap. It’s domestic, it’s perfect.  
“Eggsy, there is one more thing you have to promise me”, Harry tells him and Eggsy looks up from his plate, suddenly a little bit worried because his husband’s voice is serious, like there is yet another problem they have to face. “If – when I die. I want you to find someone else.”  
It takes a few deep breaths for Eggsy not to throw up his pizza; the thought of not only having to watch Harry die, but having to try and fall in love with someone else, is too much to take.  
“Harry, babe”, he starts, knows he looks as pleading, as desperate as he feels. “I won’t make a promise I don’t know I can keep.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry must sense that he is upset, that he might have asked for too much, because he doesn’t insist on it, instead wraps his arms around Eggsy and holds him. His arms are warm and familiar around him, and Eggsy counts his exhales, matches the rhythm of his breathing with Harry’s.   
And after having been the strong one for such a long time, he can let go for once.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry is sixty-five when his physiotherapist finally declares him well enough to stop with the sessions. It’s a relief for both of them; even if Harry won’t ever get rid of his cane again, it feels like something has changed.  
They celebrate it with a bottle of champagne and a couple of tentative kisses that do not lead to more.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry wakes up with a scream, shaking and his skin damp with sweat when Eggsy puts his arms around him, presses a kiss to his temple to calm him down.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Rob sends a postcard, although they haven’t spoken in years. In the front, there’s a picture of him and Lindsay, whose hair is short now, dark brown, little Adrian between them, and a new baby on Rob’s lap.   
Eggsy puts it on the fridge, feels a little bit happier every time he sees it.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and finds the map of Lisbon again when he is searching for his keys, and catches himself thinking, _Well, why not now?_

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry is sixty-five, throws a paperclip at him that hits Eggsy right in the face.   
It’s nearing midnight and they’re both tired, which might be why something so small makes Eggsy laugh so hard. His husband chimes in, throws another paperclip.  
“What the fuck, Harry?”, he asks once the laughter has died down, and Harry, who is spread out on the sofa, just shrugs.   
“We should go home”, he says, like it explains everything. In reality, it just makes Eggsy roll his eyes, even if fondly.   
“If ya remember, it was ya who told me I had to finish this freaking load of paperwork until Friday and not me. So stop complaining.” Eggsy sits back for a moment anyway, just looks at Harry and once again, feels overwhelmed by just how much he enjoys this, how much he loves the man in front of him still, even after more than a decade.

“Yes, well, I changed my mind”, Harry replies, brings him back to reality. “Monday will do.”  
“You could just go home without me?”  
“But I don’t want to.”   
It’s a simple statement, and half a year ago, it wouldn’t have had any deeper meaning, but it does now. It makes Eggsy stop mid-motion, look up to meet Harry’s eyes. And there is something in them, something he hasn’t seen in a long, long time, which causes him to get up from his seat, the form for returning a broken holographic watch only half-filled out, but already forgotten.  
“Then let’s go.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and finds out that what he has seen in Harry’s eyes before is lust, because there are lips covering his own almost the second they make it through the door. They are soft and just a little bit chapped, kiss him just like they used to do, lovingly, but with an underlying hunger that Eggsy understands just too well.   
He opens his mouth to lick at Harry’s lips, pushes a thigh between the other’s while Harry slides his hands down Eggsy’s side to squeeze his arse, making Eggsy groan into his husband’s mouth. It’s been so long since he has dared to do anything like this, and God, he missed it.   
Not just the pleasure, the lust, but the feeling of being one, of being so close to each other that nothing could possibly fit between them.

They share another kiss, then another, until they start blending into each other as their breaths mingle, and Eggsy can feel his cock swell between his legs, his erection insistent after having been denied for such a long time.   
“Harry”, he breathes out, pulls away just enough so he can look into the other’s eyes, finding them dark with lust, his lips kissed red. “If ya – like, if we don’t stop real soon, then…”  
He lets his voice trail off, trusting Harry to know what he means – they have never talked about that night, and it doesn’t feel like this is the right moment to start doing so.   
And Harry obviously agrees, for he just leans in and brushes their lips together in another kiss, this one gentler, sweeter than any before.   
“About that”, he mutters, even when they haven’t quite parted yet, so Eggsy can feel his husband’s lips moving against his own. “I went to see someone. A doctor. Most of it seems to have been psychosomatic, but if it’s not enough, they gave me something to, well. Make it work. So if you want to…”  
Eggsy doesn’t waste time on giving his answer, instead just kisses Harry again.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and it works out just fine.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Roxy is forty, smiles at her son fondly when Teddy climbs up onto Eggsy’s lap. He’s a little angel, this one, with Roxy’s dark eyes and his father’s lips that are always curled up into a smile. Sometimes, when Eggsy looks at him, he thinks he could hardly feel more affection for a child of his own.   
“You need to come and draw with us later”, Teddy tells him, reaches out to wrap his little arms around Eggsy’s neck, hugging him tightly, and using their proximity to whisper into his ear, so his mother won’t hear him, “Emma’s being mean again. She took all the glitter markers and won’t give me any.”  
Cheeky little shit.

Still Eggsy hugs back, holding back his laughter and ignoring Roxy’s questioning glance for a second. “’course, mate, I’ll be right with ya, alright? Just have to finish talking to ya mum real quick.”  
Teddy pulls back, a bright smile on his little face, holds out his pinkie, and Eggsy feels his heart grow light and warm with affection. “Promise, Uncle Eggsy? Ya have to promise.”  
“Promise.” They link pinkies, and Eggsy tries not to think of Anshi, of how she tried to imitate his accent as well. “But now off ya go.”  
Satisfied, Teddy releases Eggsy’s finger and jumps off his lap, only stopping to hug Eggsy’s legs once more. “You’re my favourite godfather, Uncle Eggsy.”  
“And ya my favourite godson.”

That and another smile are enough to send Teddy off to the room he shares with his sister again, both Roxy and Eggsy looking after him.  
“What little secret did he have to share with you now?”, she finally asks, turns back to Eggsy and their coffee.   
“Nothing big, I’m afraid, just that Emma is hogging the glitter markers again.” Eggsy takes a sip of his coffee, deeming it still too hot. “But you were saying? Before the lil’ rascal came to complain.”  
“Oh right, yes. I can hardly believe I’m saying this”, Roxy replies, a little, sheepish smile on her lips. “It sounds so mature, and although I gave birth to the twins I don’t quite feel like an adult all the time. But anyway. Me and Harry, we started looking at houses. In the subburbs, can you imagine? The ones with a garden and all that, so the kids will have enough space.”  
“Oh?” Eggsy doesn’t have to feign his surprise, “Don’t they have enough space here? There’s a spare room upstairs still, and yes, I know that Haz has his train model and things in there, but that would still work as a room for one of them, if ya cleaned it out.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that… in case he’ll ever be able to get rid of those, that is. But you see, Harry and I both thought that maybe, now that the twins are a bit older, maybe we should start thinking about the future. And about if we didn’t maybe want another baby.” She seems to be fighting the smile threatening to appear on her lips, and Eggsy’s lips part, mouth hanging open just a little.   
“You aren’t…?”  
“No, but we’re trying.” By now, Roxy has given up, is beaming at him, and Eggsy ignores the coffee, gets up so he can hug his best friend instead, feeling Roxy laugh, giggle. “It feels so strange to say that.”  
“I think it sounds wonderful”, Eggsy tells her, hugs her a little bit more tightly. “It’s a great idea. Ya both such amazing parents and I think we both know that the world needs more of little copies of ya around. Of Haz too, but mainly of ya. Go for it. I’ll even help ya lot move a second time.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and he and Roxy spend the rest of the afternoon looking at pictures of potential houses, discussing the distance from there to HQ, to the next kindergarten, to Eggsy’s and Harry’s house. A few of them are lovely, a few are absolutely out of the question, and somewhere along the way, something in Eggsy’s mind clicks into place.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Haz insists that he stays for dinner; Eggsy insists that if he does, he’ll help with the cooking, and so the two of them end in the kitchen, Emma and Teddy scurrying around in their attempt to help as well.   
“So, another baby?”, Eggsy asks while he dices red peppers, the only vegetable both the twins eat.   
“Yes”, Haz replies after a second, stirring the sauce they are making. “Roxy told you all about our plans?”  
“I think so. Unless there is more than a new kid and a new house.” He looks up to smile at Harry, thanking every higher power for the billionth time for letting Roxy find someone who compliments her so well; Haz smiles back.  
“Not really. Apart from the rest of our lives, I guess.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and leaves them a little bit tipsy and half a plan formed in his mind. He loves their house, loves how, although it used to be Harry’s alone, he has left his mark on it by now, but he also knows how hard the stairs are on his husband’s knees, how the narrow passages and cramped space make it charming, but are impractical for someone who has to use a cane.   
They have never moved before together, but maybe it’s time.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry is sixty-five, waits for him when he comes home just past midnight.   
“Did you have a nice evening?”, he asks when Eggsy steps into the room, plops down next to him on the sofa. The telly is playing, but he doubts that Harry has been watching whatever game show is on.   
“Yeah. It was great, actually”, Eggsy replies, hesitates for a second, but then leans against Harry, picking up the other’s marred hand and stroking his thumb across the scarred tissue. Harry still picks at it when he thinks Eggsy cannot see, but not quite as often anymore as he used to, and Eggsy decides to take it as a good sign, just like the fact that the other doesn’t pull his hand away now. “They want another kid, Roxy and Haz. Told them I thought it was a great idea.”  
Harry hums, and for a moment, Eggsy thinks it’s all the answer he will get.   
“I agree. It’s not often that knights find a way to create their own little bit of happiness, and Roxy should take the chance.”  
“It isn’t?”, Eggsy asks instead of answers, heart fluttering nervously all of a sudden.   
Harry curls his three and a half fingers around Eggsy’s and smiles, presses a kiss to the top of his head. “No. Not everyone has gotten as lucky as I did.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and goes on a mission to Carlow of all places. Even after all these years, he still can’t help but feel a wave of dislike rush over him when he gets off the plane; even after eleven years, it feels like the town is still out to get him.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and the mission takes two and a half weeks, because one of the men he is supposed to take out escapes at first, but even when he takes him out, knows that he has done the world a favour, there is hardly any of the usual feeling of victory left.   
Of course there is the sense of satisfaction of a job well done, but only a small fraction of the elation he used to feel when he first became an agent.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and feels like weeping with joy when he comes back home.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine, asks, “Ya ever had the feeling like ya… I dunno. Losing passion for this?”  
“Don’t think I ever did”, Albert answers, takes a swig of his beer. “Why? Are you losing your edge, Galahad junior?”  
He sends Eggsy an infectious grin, steals one of the chips from Eggsy’s plate.   
“I don’t know. Maybe?” It feels like admitting to a crime, a sin, because Kingsman is what Eggsy always wanted, and that shouldn’t change. “It’s a strange feeling. Of course, I was never too fond of long missions, y’know the ones that make ya so homesick ya feel ya could cry, but the usual missions? I loved them. Fighting, seeing new things, saving people, I loved all about them. And yet lately it’s like I’ve lost all of my excitement for ‘em.”

Eggsy pauses, takes a drink, then adds, “I thought it was because of Harry at first, since he wasn’t well, but he’s been getting better, we’ve been getting better, and still. When I came back from Carlow I was still pumped full of adrenaline, still excited, but there was none of that… I dunno. I didn’t want to dance and sing and scream on the top of my lungs, I just wanted to go home.”  
“Hm.” Albert looks uncharacteristically thoughtful, tapping two fingers against his bottom lip. “You probably won’t want to hear what I’m going to say, Eggsy, but some of us just aren’t meant to do this forever. It happens ever so often, knights who don’t die, or get maimed, but who just run out of energy, or will to continue. The Lancelot before James was one of them, a lovely older man who decided that what he wanted to do with his life at some point wasn’t running around and saving the world, but moving to France and buying a little vineyard with his wife. Never forgave him that he moved to France of all places, but it was the right choice for him. He kept sending us wine for Christmas, dreadful shit, but we drank it anyway.”

Albert steals another chip from Eggsy’s plate, munches on it for a few seconds; Eggsy wants to say something, but doesn’t know what. “The point is that he was a great agent, but he just realised that it wasn’t all he wanted to be. He wanted to be a shitty winegrower and a great husband too. And instead of him, we got James, who was just as good as an agent and the only one who sort of appreciated the wine Hammond sent. They both got what they wanted. And you should figure out what you want, because in the end, the world can be saved by anyone, but you only have this one life. Better make the most of it.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry is sixty-five, brushes his fingers across his shoulder, a gesture without much thought behind it, but not without meaning.   
“You seem distracted, my heart”, he comments, not worried, just curious. “Did anything happen?”  
“I guess.” Eggsy looks up at his husband, who is standing in front of him, cane keeping him steady. “I had lunch with Albert today, and he told me this story about a former agent, the Lancelot before James?”  
“Oh yes.” Harry nods, sits down next to Eggsy, who scoots closer, kisses Harry’s cheek, because they didn’t get to say hello properly. “Hammond. We got along rather well, actually. He did grow the worst kind of wine though.”  
“Albert mentioned that, yeah.” Eggsy lets himself fall back until he’s lying on his back, his head pillowed in Harry’s lap. “He also mentioned something else. That Hammond just… gave up? Retired. That that is something that isn’t even that uncommon.”  
“It isn’t.” Again, Harry’s fingers find their way to Eggsy’s hair, brushing through the soft strands in a way that Eggsy knows could lull him to sleep easily if he let it. “Sometimes it’s for the best, if a knight- wait. Are you considering that, my heart? Retiring?”

Eggsy can feel blood rush to his cheeks, even if there is no reason at all for him to be embarrassed; still, he looks away for a second. “Maybe. Dunno, haven’t yet given it much thought yet, but the missions, all of that, it’s not the same anymore and maybe… not now, but in a few years?”  
The fingers playing with his hair don’t stop, Harry hums, and Eggsy would take this as an answer, but then Harry says, “If it’s what you want – and I mean, just you, without considering anyone else’s wellbeing, then I think it’s as good a plan as any other.”  
“Ya mean if I don’t do it because I think I have to care for ya.”  
There is a short pause, then Harry says, “Yes.”  
“Don’t worry then”, Eggsy replies, lets his eyes fall shut because Harry’s fingers feel too good playing with his hair like this. “If I decide to, it won’t be about that.”

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and wakes up an hour or so later, Harry’s fingers still carding through his hair.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and his mother opens the door instead of Daisy. She looks good, well rested, her hair short now, but still dyed blonde; he misses her.  
“Oh. Hi”, he greets a little bit awkwardly. They have met a few times like this over the past year or so, but it doesn’t get easier, because it still makes his blood boil when he thinks about her words to Harry, on the night before their wedding, because she hasn’t apologised. And yet, he cannot help but wish he could just let it go, not only for their sake, but Daisy’s too.  
“Hello, Eggsy”, Michelle answers, offers a smile. “Daisy’s still upstairs, she’s packin’. Her boyfriend only dropped her off ten minutes ago.”  
“Oh yeah, right. No worries, I’m not in a hurry. Harry’s not home, so…” It’s strange to think of his little sister (who isn’t even that little anymore, seventeen years old, how can he keep forgetting this all the time?) having a boyfriend, but Eggsy tries. After all he has met the boy, an exchange student from Latvia called Andris and he almost seems good enough for her. “I don’t mind waiting, is what I’m tryna say.”

“Good”, Michelle says, bites her lip, something she has always done when she was nervous. “And it’s good t’ see ya. In fact, I meant t’ call anyway, because… well, I know what ya said back then, but I thought maybe ya’d like to come ‘round for dinner sometime. Ya can bring Harry too, if ya wanna.”  
She looks like she expects Eggsy to say no, almost like she’s scared of hearing the words, and Eggsy can feel a wave of affection wash over him, because in the end, she’s still his mother, and he still loves her.   
“Yeah, mum. Yeah, I’d like that”, he replies, and watches a smile take over her face, relieved and happy.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry is sixty-five, doesn’t come home that night, most likely because his meetings took too long and he didn’t feel like making the way back home too, and it’s the first time that Eggsy isn’t worried.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine, looks through website after website, searching for a hotel in Lisbon. He could just ask Merlin, but he doesn’t want to out of a reason that is more irrational than anything else – he wants to do this for them himself, a surprise his husband more than deserves.   
So he reads reviews, checks locations, looks up restaurants and museums, even if he is certain that, like always, Harry will know his way around the city better than he ever could, no matter how much he prepares.   
They won’t have a week to spend in Lisbon, because there are meeting to attend, missions to finish, paperwork to fill out, but even a couple of days sound like a beautiful promise, something to look forward to. 

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry is sixty-five, comes home with dark circles under his eyes, his hair slightly out of place, which has to mean that whatever it is his husband has been up to today must have been more than just tedious. The hand Harry is gripping his cane with shakes slightly once he has leaned it against the sofa, and Eggsy is at his side in an instant, wrapping his arms around the other’s neck.  
“Long day?”, he asks and Harry nods, sighs. His arms snake around Eggsy’s waist to hold him close, and although Harry must be beat, Eggsy can’t help but love it a little bit, the easy touches, the affection they betray.   
“So fucking long”, Harry finally replies, his breath warm against the side of Eggsy’s neck. “Tell me to shoot the head of the Chinese division the next time I see him, please. I’d rather face the charges than try and debate with him about something so small as to what colour the new Rainmakers should be again. _For an hour_.”  
“Well, why didn’t ya just give in? Let him have ‘em in whatever colour they want them”, Eggsy asks, starts to pull away, but stops when Harry’s arms tighten around him. “Assuming ya didn’t.”

“Of course I didn’t.” The other sounds almost a little offended, even if he soothes whatever little sting his word might have left with a kiss to Eggsy’s cheek. “Because he was wrong.”  
And Eggsy can’t help it, he has to laugh, amusement still softening his words when he asks, “Well, did ya at least win then?”  
“Obviously”, Harry answers, like there was never any other way this could pan out, and Eggsy _loves_ him.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine, convinces Merlin to clear Harry’s schedule for the four days just after his birthday; it doesn’t take much convincing at all, since apparently the head of the Chinese department didn’t take too kindly to his defeat, has been pestering Merlin for a special model of the new Rainmakers ever since and four days should give Merlin just enough time for that.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and goes on a mission to Peru, saves three young women and yet, Albert’s voice keep echoing in his mind.

 

Eggsy turns forty, and doesn’t celebrate at all, at least not until he gets home where Harry is waiting for him already, the table set for two. It’s perfect timing, since their flight is only leaving in three and a half hours, long enough to still have dinner at home.   
“Hi”, he greets Harry, leans up to kiss him softly. “This is lovely. But what do ya think about having breakfast in Lisbon for a change?”

 

Eggsy is forty and Harry is sixty-five, smiles at him as they sip their coffee in a hotel bed in Lisbon – Harry is terribly picky when it comes to tea, insists that it’s almost impossible to get any brand that’s even worth trying outside of England, and Eggsy has to admit that he has allowed his husband and his fancy loose leaf tea to spoil him into almost thinking the same.   
“So, do we have any plans for today, or would you rather stay in bed?”, Harry asks and Eggsy can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that, surprised.   
“What, ya didn’t make a list of the one hundred things ya wanna show me the second we got on the plane?”, he asks; Harry shakes his head.   
“Not at all. This is your trip, you planned it and therefore you can also take any and all responsibility for it. Which includes me commenting on everything that I find unsatisfactory.”  
“You’re an arse”, Eggsy comments, but smiles, sets down his cup of coffee so he can roll on top of Harry, pin him down on the mattress.

It causes a bit of coffee to spill from Harry’s cup, most of it staining the pristine sheets; Eggsy licks the rest off his husband’s chest.   
“Hi”, he mutters, smiling down at Harry, who is setting his cup down on the nightstand before turning back to him. “Fancy meeting ya here.”  
If nothing else, it makes Harry laugh, strong arms circling Eggsy’s waist, fingertips drawing random patterns on the expanse of his back, leaving behind a trail of goose bumps. “Really, Eggsy?”  
“Yeah, absolutely. I can be as cheesy as I want to, I’m on vacation.”  
“And that’s an excuse?”  
“That’s _my_ excuse, at least.”  
He’s still smiling, and Harry’s arms are still around him – the atmosphere shifts, and suddenly, it’s not enough anymore. Eggsy leans in and kisses the other, but was what meant as a quick peck turns into something long and sweet and loving instead. His hand comes up to cup Harry’s cheek while one of his husband’s hands slide down until it’s lingering just above the swell of his arse, both tempting and taunting.

They break apart when Eggsy feels his lungs complain, the kiss followed by a dozen shorter ones, until Eggsy is grinning madly, lays back down on Harry’s chest, listening to the other’s heartbeat for a few, long moments.   
“I love ya”, he mutters against warm skin, and Harry’s arms tighten around him, until it feels like they won’t ever have to part again. “So much.”

 

Eggsy is forty and Harry is sixty-five, ends up leading Eggsy through the city anyway. Not that Eggsy minds – even after all this time, he still loves listening to Harry talk, explain the buildings, the history of the Convento do Carmo, the Torre de Belém.   
It doesn’t hurt that Harry keeps his hand clasped in his own, their eight and a half fingers fitting together as well as their ten used to.

 

Eggsy is thirty-nine and Harry is sixty-five, night has fallen around them, making the city feel smaller around them, cosier.   
They had dinner in a small restaurant they stumbled upon, the waiter eyeing them strangely but still treating them politely enough not to ruin the experience. Afterwards, Harry took his hand again and led him to a park nearby, bushes trimmed into geometrical shapes in the middle and little enough tourists around for it to feel intimate.   
And Harry is still holding onto his hand as they stroll through the park, the air around them sweet and fragrant. Eggsy catches himself thinking that, if they weren’t married already, he’d propose to Harry again, just because the evening seems to call for romantic gestures.

And perhaps Harry feels the same, because he says, “You know, my heart, I feel terribly selfish saying this still, but I’m terribly glad that you didn’t leave.”  
His voice is soft, almost lost in the bustle of wind in the grass, the faint sounds of traffic, their footsteps, but Eggsy hears it anyway, and it’s like his heart breaks open, shatters, because he’s been waiting to hear these words for such a long time now.   
“I’m still not convinced that it was the right choice for you, no matter what Doctor Fisher says, what _you_ say, but I know that there is nothing that could make me as happy as being here with you does.” He stops and Eggsy stops with him, lost for words because he is feeling too much, hardly remembers how to breathe. “There have been others before you, you know that, but never anyone like you. Never anyone who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with… and never anyone who I trusted enough to even consider letting them do that.”

Harry takes a deep, shaky breath, and Eggsy wants to hug him, wants to tell him that he feels just the same, but Harry is faster, continues. “I’ve always wanted to be strong for you, Eggsy, and I’m aware that I won’t be able to do that forever. But I want you to know that, when that happens, there is no one I’d rather have at my side than you. And although it took me so long to realise it at first, there has always only been you. You called me your saviour, but, my heart, in the end it was you who saved me.”

 

Eggsy is forty and Harry is sixty-five, they make love that night, there’s no other word for it. It’s soft, gentle, and when Harry finally comes inside him, Eggsy just holds him close, doesn’t allow him to pull away.

 

Eggsy is forty and Harry is sixty-five and they have breakfast in bed again, spend the whole day walking the city, even if they’re slower now that Harry has to use his cane, eating ice cream and holding hands, sharing kisses in whatever corner they find.   
If there’s a heaven, Eggsy is certain it looks like this.

 

Eggsy is forty, says, “I know I already said that when we were on our honeymoon, but we really need to do this more often. Just get away, even if just for a few days.”  
“You’re right”, Harry agrees, steals one of Eggsy’s petiscos. “Maybe we can manage to do it this time. There are still so many cities I want to show you, so many countries.”  
“Then let’s make it happen”, Eggsy says before Harry can slip into one of his pensive moods, the one he hardly emerges from without bringing a bit of darkness with him. “We’ve got all the time we need.”

 

Eggsy is forty and Harry is sixty-five and after four, beautiful days, they have to leave Portugal behind, and Eggsy doesn’t even try to pretend he doesn’t hate the thought of having to go back to his everyday life.

 

Eggsy is forty and they sleep together again when they get back. Something has changed in those few days, but in the best of ways. They haven’t left all of what happened between them behind, doing that will need much more time, months, maybe even years, but they’re getting better, and that means everything.

 

Eggsy is forty and Crawley comes back from a mission with a bullet lodged in his shoulder, another one in his side, two stab wounds in his thighs. Truth be told, Eggsy doesn’t care too much about the other knight, especially when he knows that the wounds are anything but lethal; he still goes to visit Crawley in the medical wing, finds the man in question asleep, but Elliot right next to him, holding his boyfriend’s hand.   
It reminds Eggsy of how he used to spend every free minute he had at Harry’s side back when his husband was in a coma, talking to him although he didn’t think the other could listen, curling up at his side,  because even being a little bit closer to Harry had made him feel better.

“He’s gonna get better”, he tells Elliot, puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder, who startles, must have been too deep in thought to even notice Eggsy entering the room.   
“I know.” Elliot doesn’t seem comforted at all, only gives Crawley’s hand a squeeze, and no matter how much Eggsy might dislike the other knight, he still feels a wave of affection wash over him – if he means this much to Elliot, he can’t be all bad.  
“Ya really love him, don’t ya?”, he asks, although he knows the answer; Elliot sighs unhappily, but nods.   
“Yeah, I guess I do. Never thought I would, y’know it was supposed to be a fling? Some casual sex, nothing more. He wasn’t even _nice_ at first. But it just changed at some point…and right now, I wish it hadn’t, because it fucking hurts to see him like this.”  
“Ya don’t mean that”, Eggsy says gently, and Elliot slumps, shakes his head.   
“No, I don’t. I just want him to wake up.”  
“And he will.” Eggsy removes his hand from the other’s shoulder so he can pull another chair to the bedside, sitting down right next to Elliot. “If ya don’t mind – and he doesn’t, of course – I’d like to meet him when he is better. Really meet him, I mean. If ya love him enough to sit here and watch him sleep, he must deserve it.”

 

Eggsy is forty and comes home long midnight, exhausted but satisfied, because Crawley woke up and Elliot almost started crying,  clutching to the other’s hand, and the only thing Eggsy could still do is quietly slip out of the room and wish them the best of luck.

 

Eggsy is forty and wakes up with Harry’s arms around him, the other’s breath hot against the back of his neck. The alarm has not yet rung and so Eggsy just pushes back into Harry’s embrace, snuggles into the pillows, and lets sleep overtake him once more.

 

Eggsy is forty and Harry turns sixty-six and they spend the evening at home with a bottle of lovely white wine and a roast Eggsy prepared in advance. It’s slow and lazy and Eggsy loves it.

 

Eggsy is forty and Harry is sixty-six and they go to bed early that night, wrapped up and losing themselves in each other.

 

Eggsy is forty and Elfie comes to London again, this time without even pretending there is a reason for her visit apart from wanting to see her husband. And yet, it’s Harry she hugs first when she steps off the plane, pulling back to tell him something that Eggsy cannot understand – he doesn’t need to to know that she is scolding his husband. It’s all in the way her brows furrow, how she gesticulates, the downwards turn of her mouth.   
Harry nods, tries to give her a smile, which causes Elfie to hit him softly on the shoulder, before she lets go of him, turns towards Merlin and Eggsy, the frown being replaced by a brilliant smile within seconds.   
Next to him, Eggsy can feel a few months’ tension leaving Merlin’s body within the two seconds it takes to take in the sight of his wife.   
“Welcome home, kukla”, Merlin greets, waits for the few seconds it takes for Elfie to cross the distance between them, to fall into his arms. He wraps her into a hug within a few moments, Elfie hiding her face in the crook of Merlin’s neck, and although he knows both of them so well, Eggsy feels like he has to look away, instead looking at Harry, who is still watching his friends, smiling.

 

Eggsy is forty and Harry is sixty-six and they leave Merlin and Elfie to catch up, instead go to have lunch in a restaurant close to the shop, Eggsy’s hand grasped tightly in Harry’s.

 

Eggsy is forty and follows Harry back to his office after lunch; both of them have had too much food, and he is very much looking forward to taking a little nap on Harry’s sofa, his head on the other’s lap. Only that the office isn’t empty – Merlin and Elfie are sitting on the very sofa Eggsy wanted to lie down on, their hands clasped together between them and both of them looking nervous in a way that makes Eggsy feel a little bit scared.  
“Oh, hello”, Harry greets his two oldest friends, stops in front of them, but his fingers tighten around Eggsy’s, betraying that he feels a little anxious too. “What brought you two here?”  
“We’ve – well, I have something to tell you”, Merlin says, and his voice sounds like nothing Eggsy has ever heard before, determined and yet almost a little bit sad, like he has made the right decision and yet hates it. “I’m leaving. Retiring. Or at least, almost – Elfie has spoken with the Zeus from the Greek division and they need someone who takes care of the tech there from time to time, and I volunteered for that.”  
He takes a deep breath and Eggsy can’t move, unsure what is happening, because Kingsman without Merlin sounds impossible. “I’m going to stay until the end of the year so I can teach Elyan the rest he needs to know, but from what I’ve seen from the kid, I’m certain that he’ll be at least as good a Merlin as I was.”

Harry’s fingers are still around his, but have gone lax again, and Eggsy wishes he knew what that meant, but he can’t look away, taking in the way Elfie is watching her husband, how bright her eyes are, how happy she seems; it must be a dream come true.   
“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about it before, Harry, we just weren’t sure if we were going to go through with it up until an hour or two ago.” Merlin seems a little bit calmer, is looking right up at Harry, even if he is stroking his thumb across Elfie’s knuckles softly, repeatedly. “But I’m sixty-three years old, and although I love Kingsman and am forever grateful that I could be part of it, I just want to spend the last ten, fifteen years I have with my wife. Not just two or three weeks every two months, but every day.”

Merlin looks like he is steeling himself for a discussion, Eggsy prepares himself for comforting Harry once they are alone, and Harry lets go of Eggsy’s hand and his cane, letting it drop to the floor, and crosses the distance between him and the couch, crouching down to hug both Elfie and Merlin close to his chest.   
“Fucking finally”, he tells Merlin, and Eggsy can’t stop the grin from spreading across his face at how choked up his husband’s voice is, how happy he sounds; just like when Merlin first told them that he had proposed, when they had watched Merlin and Elfie declare their love to each other in front of everyone. “I thought I would have to drag you to Greece in the end, you stubborn bastard.”  
Neither Merlin nor Elfie answer, they just hug back.

 

Eggsy is forty and Harry is sixty-six; Merlin and Elfie have left half an hour ago after they had come over to toast to Merlin’s retirement, leaving Harry and him on the couch, mellow with alcohol and happy announcements. Harry is stroking his hair, a smile still on his lips, and Eggsy thinks he should maybe get up and turn on the lights, but he can’t tear himself away from his husband.   
“Y’know, babe”, he mutters without allowing himself to think about for too long, “I want that too one day. Gettin’ away from here, from all of it. Not to Greece, but maybe to the country, a small house in somewhere in Surrey, or Essex, so I can still go and see Daisy occasionally, visit my mum, maybe drop by HQ if they need something. But I don’t want to be an agent forever.”  
Harry’s fingers don’t falter, twirl a strand of hair around, and Eggsy doesn’t hold his breath, but waits anyway, looking up through the twilight at his husband’s face.  
“We can certainly do that”, Harry answers after a second, then another, strokes a fingertip down the bridge of Eggsy’s nose. “Find a place, settle down, once you decide that you’ve had enough of saving the world on a daily basis.”

“Really?”, Eggsy asks, smiling softly and reaching up to catch Harry’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers together.   
“Of course. You only have to ask.” Harry’s voice is soft and sweet, his fingers warm between Eggsy’s, and for a second, Eggsy can see their future in front of him – a small cottage with a white picket fence, long sleepy mornings and maybe a little puppy keeping them company. And he wants that.  
“Harry Hart”, he starts, although he doesn’t want it now, just wants it at some point, in a few years, “Man of my dreams, love of my life, do ya want to go and live with me somewhere in the country like the two old farts we are? Spend the rest of our lives together being the gossip in a little, stuck-up village?”  
And Harry laughs softly, raises their hands up to his lips, kissing each of Eggsy’s knuckles.   
“Yes, Eggsy. With you, everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so that's the last regular chapter and I am feeling a little bit like crying just thinking about it.   
> The next one will be a last little bit to wrap the story up, an afterthought, if you want to call it that, and I just hope that you enjoyed the ride up until now as much as I did.


	19. Chapter 19

Eggsy is sixty-five and wakes up too early, like he has done on most mornings in the last decade or so. It’s one of the things he never thought he’d have to worry about, not being able to sleep in anymore, and although he still doesn’t enjoy it, there are advantages, even Eggsy has to admit that, like the sun rising outside, slowly illuminating the English countryside. Of course, the cottage has lost some of its magic in the seventeen years they have been living here, but at the same time it has gained something Eggsy has never known in this intensity before – it’s become home.  
Not the flat he used to live in with his mum, which never felt safe, not the house provided to him by Kingsman, which never truly felt like his, not Harry’s home that had accepted him after half a year, a year, two, but a home they made for themselves, together.  
And in that home, Eggsy turns around, a soft smile tugging on his lips at the sight of his husband. The years haven’t been kind to him, and Eggsy knows that; he’s still the most beautiful thing Eggsy has ever seen in this very moment, just like he is every single morning.

Reaching out, Eggsy brushes a strand of white hair from Harry’s forehead, resists the urge to press a kiss to the other’s forehead, not wanting to wake him. Sleep doesn’t come that easily anymore to both of them, so he tries to give Harry as many opportunities as possible to catch up on the hours he has missed.  
He gets up slowly, his limbs stiff with sleep, when he stretches it’s hard to ignore all the different aches and discomforts his body is tormenting him with these days, each pull and sting reminding him of all the things his body won’t ever forgive him for – the ankle he never allowed to heal after he jumped out of that window in the Philippines, several bullets that ripped their way through his limbs, stab wounds to his side and shoulder, a particularly nasty fracture of his left femur, the injury that finally convinced him to retire: a fractured jaw, splintered into pieces which not even the Kingsman medical team was able to fit perfectly together again. 

Repressing a groan, Eggsy straightens, his back cracking uncomfortably, his knees and ankle complaining when he tiptoes to the door, slipping out of it, only to leave it ajar – they hardly ever close it anymore, since Harry’s sleep has gotten so light that sometimes, the creaking of the handle is enough to wake him up.  
It makes more sneaking and tiptoeing necessary, but even after decades, Eggsy still prides himself on his spy abilities, makes it to the kitchen without making a sound. The clock on the wall shows that it’s just past six, which is perfect, leaves him more than enough time to go for his daily run, pop by the bakery nearby to get Harry the pain au chocolat he likes so much and get back early enough to start making breakfast before his husband wakes up.

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and the air is sweet when he steps outside, clean and crisp after last night’s rain, and Eggsy breathes in deeply, lets his eyes slip shut for a few seconds. He loves mornings like this, when it feels like he has all of Shere, if not all of Surrey, to himself.  
In half an hour, maybe a little longer, Mr. and Mrs. Hawking are going to open up their little supermarket, in an hour, the first shuttle to the city will leave, and while the village never gets busy, at least not for someone who grew up in the middle of London, it will be filled with people once more. Sometimes, Eggsy wonders just when that started being something he wasn’t looking forward to, when he started to prefer wandering the streets by himself and pretend that he was untouchable.

Turning left, Eggsy starts slowly, reintroducing his joints and muscles to the strain that jogging has become, his breathing coming in huffs within seconds. There were times when he was ten times faster than this and still managed to go on for thrice as long as he does nowadays, but that’s quite alright with him. Age isn’t something he fears, death, on the other hand, might be.  
He jogs down Chantry Lane until he reaches the river, grinning when he, despite himself, notices that the grass in the Turner’s garden hasn’t been trimmed, a sure sign that the small family is still in Spain. More than a decade in a village have managed to make him just as nosy as the old people he and Harry used to make fun of when they just moved to Shere.

Following Tillingbourne River, the rhythm of his own feet slapping the pavement lulls him into a trance that always allows Eggsy to forget about his racing heart, his burning lungs. Still, he hardly makes it past St. James’ Church, before it’s too much, sweat making his shirt cling to his chest, the gentle breeze cool against his heated skin.  
The sun has risen by now, tinting Shere golden and gorgeous, and Eggsy slows down until he’s walking, trying to get his breathing under control. In front of him, the river glitters in the morning sun and Eggsy counts his breaths, lets his eyes flutter shut.  
Life is good here, he knows it, feels it in every cell.

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and Amelie greets him like always, her voice syrupy sweet and impossibly kind, the charming hint of a French accent still making her words sound like a song, even after having lived in England for more than two decades.  
“Hello, handsome”, she warbles, already wrapping up a pain au chocolat for Harry and a croissant for Eggsy, three bread rolls. “The same as usual?”  
“You know it”, Eggsy responds with a wink and a smile, and Amelie laughs, hands over the pastries and accepts the money, putting it away.  
“Greet your husband from me, will you?”, she tells him and cards a hand through her dark hair; she’s a beautiful woman, even before seven in the morning, even at fifty-two years of age.  
“I absolutely will. We might come round for tea later, if Harry feels like going out.”  
“Tell him I’ll make a mille feuille later, maybe that’ll convince him”  
“I’m sure it will.”

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and when he gets back to their house Harry is already up and about, the shower running behind a half-closed bathroom door. For a second, Eggsy considers joining his husband, hopping into the shower behind Harry, wrapping his arms around the other’s waist and holding him close. He can almost feel the water raining down on him, see Harry’s small smile in front of his inner eye, but decides against it in the end, knowing that it would end with them in bed again, touching and kissing, even if their tired, old bodies would most likely prevent them from getting anywhere. The croissants would go stale and they would sleep till noon; a great plan for another day, but not this one.  
So instead, Eggsy puts on the kettle, because neither he nor Harry ever got used to the fancy devices all around who brew the tea for you, perfect timing, perfect temperature, perfect everything. Eggsy has long since learnt to cherish the small faults and mistakes life brings with it.

He’s setting the table – the mug with Teddy’s handprint on it, which he got from his godson for his forty-fifth birthday for him, one of those Daisy gave them for their tenth anniversary for Harry, a picture of their smiling faces in the front – when Harry emerges from the bathroom, hair combed back and his good hand gripping the handle of his cane tightly. A little too tightly - it must be a bad day, then.  
Still, there is a smile on Harry’s lips when he sets eyes on him, and Eggsy gives his husband a small wave, places the plates where he wants them before walking over, pecking Harry’s cheek.  
“Slept well?”, he asks, and Harry nods, reaches up to brush three fingertips over the slightly sagging skin of Eggsy’s jaw – when Merlin was still alive, it was the one thing which consoled him after it became clear that Harry would most likely go to his grave with still enough hair on his head to keep it perfectly coiffed: Eggsy neither kept his hair, not his sharp features, like the other man did.  
“Good. Me too. Went for a run, and got us breakfast.” He jerks his head towards the set table, then adds, “Amelie says hello and asked me to tell you that she’ll be making a mille feuille today, if you feel like popping by.”  
“I assume you told her yes already?”, Harry asks, and his voice is hoarse with sleep, but still amused.  
“I absolutely did.”

Eggsy grins, and kisses Harry on the lips, even if just for a second, then reaches up to catch his husband’s fingers in his. “Unless it’s too much today?”  
A few years ago, Harry would have vehemently denied it without taking a second to consider, but now, he stays silent for a little while, then, slowly, shakes his head. Eggsy is still so proud of him because of it.  
“I think I should be fine. The knee hurts a bit more than it usually does, and my chest’s a little tight, but it’s not a long walk after all.”  
“Alright.” Almost as a reward, Eggsy kisses him again, squeezes Harry’s fingers a little. “Perfect. I’m sure Amelie will be thrilled.”  
“Because she gets to see you”, Harry shoots back, amused, and maybe a little bit wistful – even after all this time, Harry has never quite let go of his wish for Eggsy to find someone else after him. “Who wouldn’t be looking forward to that?”  
“I’m sure I can think of a few people”, Eggsy replies, pulls back slightly, but keeps Harry’s hand in his. “But as long as you are not one of them, I’m perfectly fine with that.”  
“Me? Never.”

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, sighs and settles down next to Eggsy. The cool morning has turned into a warm spring day, the sun shining down on them and a soft breeze making the grass and the apple tree in their garden whisper; Eggsy drapes the blanket over both their laps and rests his head on Harry’s shoulder.  
His husband lets go of his cane and instead puts his hand on Eggsy’s thigh, squeezing.  
“You know”, Eggsy starts, because although they didn’t start out that way, it’s usually him who initiates conversations these days. “I love it here. Best idea I ever had, coming to Shere.”  
“The best idea _we_ had”, Harry corrects, and Eggsy grins, turns his head so he can nuzzle his husband’s shoulder, breathe in the ever-familiar scent of bergamot, soap and washing powder.  
“Nah. The best idea we ever had was to get together.”  
“No, my heart”, Harry responds after a few seconds, squeezing Eggsy’s thigh again. “That was all your idea. And I am just eternally grateful for that.”

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, and they both fall asleep right there, pressed together on the bench in their garden, the spring sun keeping them warm.

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and answers the phone with, “Hello, Arthur.”  
The reply he gets is a scoff, Roxy saying, “Oh how very funny, it’s not like I have heard that one about a hundred times by now.”  
“Doesn’t make it any less hilarious to me.”  
“Oh, I am sure.” Roxy’s tone changes, goes from mock-annoyed to kind again. “I just wanted to ask if my favourite pensioner was feeling like coming over to the big, scary city next week to have a cup of tea. Or something stronger, Elliot is making the new recruits build their own drone out of scrap metal and it is the actual fucking worst.”  
“Yeah, I’d love to”, Eggsy replies, looking over his reflection in the mirror one last time before leaving the bedroom. “I’ll even bring some of Amelie’s chocolate cake, if you ask me nicely.”  
“I will, God help me. Bring an extra one for the kids, maybe? Ted and Emma said they were going to come over for tea next Saturday.”

There is some bustle in the background, some screaming, some cursing, then a crash and a lot more screaming, then Roxy says, “Sorry. I just passed the labs and one of the drones crashed on Elliot’s desk. He’s not pleased.”  
Despite himself, and despite knowing that he’ll hear all about it later, Eggsy laughs, waves at Harry, who’s sitting on the couch, reading, to let his husband know he’ll be ready in a minute.  
“I can imagine. Tell him I said hi, though, will you? And tell the kids I said hi, too.” It takes a second, maybe two until Eggsy is able to remember what else he wanted to say, it used to be easier to keep all these things in mind. “Oh yes, and tell Ted that I saw the pic of him in the papers, the one where he helps Mrs. Rogers down the stairs in the home. I’m so proud of him.”  
“As am I. As is his dad, or at least I assume he is.” Roxy sighs softly, her voice suddenly a little melancholic. “Can you believe it, Eggsy? My boy, all grown up, in the papers. Well, one paper. Did he tell you they named him employee of the month too? The most popular nurse in all of London Bridge Hospital.”  
“No, really?”, Eggsy can’t quite keep the excitement out of his voice – Teddy doesn’t call him as often as he used to, so he is grateful for every bit of information he gets about his godson, especially when it’s as wonderful as this is. “That’s great news. Who would’ve thought that a spy and an accountant would manage to produce such a great, caring kid?”  
“Definitely not said spy.”

There are a few seconds of silence, both of them lost in their own thoughts, then Eggsy meets Harry’s eyes, is suddenly reminded that, yes, there is somewhere else he should be.  
“Alright, Rox, I’ve got to go, Harry and I are going to take a walk. I’ll talk to you next week latest, yeah?”  
“A walk to the bakery?”  
“You know it.” Eggsy grins and gives Harry a thumbs up, watches his husband get up slowly, one hand gripping his cane, the other one pushing himself off the sofa. “Amelie’s making mille feuille and you know that Harry can’t resist that.  
“Neither can you, just admit that.”  
“Alright, yeah, I do.” Eggsy shrugs, moves to grab his keys, stuffs them into the pockets of his jeans. “Sue me.”  
“You’ve turned into such a bumpkin”, Roxy comments, her tone light and teasing and so very familiar by now. “I love it.”  
“Oh, shut it, city girl, and let the villagers eat their pastries in peace”, Eggsy shoots back and waits until Harry has crossed the distance between them before he opens the door. “I’ll be off now, see you next week, Rox. I’ve got a date with both my favourite pastry and my favourite husband in the world.”

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, takes his hand after they have walked a few metres, something that comes to them as natural as breathing does. Their fingers fit together perfectly, and Eggsy lets his next steps bring him even closer to his husband, until they are brushing shoulders.  
“It’s nice today, isn’t it?”, Eggsy asks and closes his eyes for a few seconds, enjoying the feeling of sunshine on his skin. “Perfect day for everything, basically.”  
“You’re right”, Harry agrees, then adds, “Well, for most things. It wouldn’t be a good day for, say, drowning in Siberia.”  
“ _Obviously_.” Still, Eggsy can’t help but grin; one of the things he’ll be grateful for forever is that, even with age, Harry has never lost his dry sense of humour, even if the quips and puns come a little less often, a little slower these days. “Good to know you can still be an arse when you feel like it.”  
“Good thing I don’t feel like being one often, then.”

Harry turns to look at him, lips quirked into a small smile and the sun reflecting in his eyes, making them even brighter, and Eggsy doesn’t think about it for a second, just leans in and kisses him softly.  
Mutters, lips still moving against lips, “That’s what you think.”

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and only lets go of Harry’s hand once they reach the shop, so he can hold open the door for his husband. It’s these small things that are harder for Harry with his cane, and it’s these small things that Eggsy is glad to be allowed to do, unhindered by pride.  
“Brought you someone”, he calls inside, where Amelia is slicing pie into even, delicious slices. “Told you he wouldn’t be able to resist.”  
When she looks up, dark ponytail bouncing, there is a smile on Amelie’s lips, a smudge of sugar on one of her cheeks. “And aren’t I glad that you were right. Good afternoon, Mr. Hart.”  
“Good afternoon, Ms. Dupont”, Harry replies, plays up the part of the aging gentleman by bowing down slightly, as much as his back allows him to. “A pleasure, as always.”  
“Oh, stop it with the flirting”, Eggsy interrupts – if he lets them, they’ll act out the entirety of Pride and Prejudice, complete with curtsies and the appropriate language. “Feed us instead, Am. And let my husband be.”

The pretended jealousy makes Amelie laugh and Harry smile – he thinks Eggsy doesn’t notice, but he enjoys the hint of possessiveness from time to time, even if only mentioned jokingly; Harry knows as well as Eggsy does that he means it, too.  
“Your wish is my command”, Amelie responds, dares to curtsy anyway, and laughs when Eggsy rolls his eyes; Eggsy pretends he doesn’t see it when Harry winks at her.

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, they both have a slice of mille feuille and Eggsy insists they take home two slices of cherry pie for the next day when they leave.

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, doesn’t look exhausted, but still tired when they get back to their house. He doesn’t have to say a thing, it’s in the way he walks, the way his steps become smaller, his grip around both the cane and Eggsy’s hand tightens.  
It’s a good thing that they took some pie with them, that way they can easily stay in tomorrow.  
“How about you go and sit down a bit? I still have to fill out this goddamned questionnaire Elliot sent last week. You know, the one about the shock-absorbent fabric he has been working on forever.”  
Harry doesn’t remember Eggsy telling him about it, he can see that, but he nods anyway, a soft smile on his lips.  
“That sounds lovely, my heart”, he adds, squeezes Eggsy’s hand one last time before letting go. “Just wake me up before supper, if I happen to fall asleep, will you?”  
“Of course, babe. Whatever you want.”

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and it takes almost two hours until he has finished the questionnaire; after he has ticked the last box, he is considering just telling Elliot to stick the next project he comes up with where the sun doesn’t shine.

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and spends another hour or so in his office, before he decides he has given Kingsman enough hours of his day. He picks up the e-reader Daisy gave him for his last birthday together with a snarky comment about how a man pushing seventy should start paying attention to his eyesight –which is still absolutely acceptable, thank you very much – and goes to find Harry.

His husband is sitting on the sofa in the living room, the TV playing, but Harry most definitely not watching – his tablet is on his lap, playing cat videos.  
“Having fun?”, Eggsy asks, and Harry looks up, surprised, because he didn’t hear him enter the room, but then nods.  
“Absolutely. Daisy sent me this, and I have to admit, it is rather adorable. Although she did call it old and it was posted about seven years ago, so I think I should be a little bit offended, don’t you?”  
Eggsy snorts and plops down next to Harry on the sofa, leaning in to sneak a peek – someone put a little kitten on a hover board, a leash on the board and is walking them both through a park, it really is rather sweet. “Well, she’s right, I guess? For the young ones, we’re probably ancient. But just you wait until her own kids will start calling her old, she’ll have a fit.”  
“She will, won’t she?”, Harry answers, sounding a little wistful all of a sudden. “I just hope I get to see it.”

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and ends up on his back, his head pillowed in Harry’s lap and the tablet balanced gently on his forehead while the fingers of his husband’s marred hand idly scratch over his scalp. For the at least the thousandth time, Eggsy wishes he still had hair left for Harry to play with.

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and the sun is slowly setting when he sits up again, stretching and ignoring his aching back.  
“Want to order food, babe? I don’t really feel like cooking too much. We could maybe get Chinese, some of those prawn crackers you like so much…”  
Next to him, Harry stiffens, slowly puts down his tablet and turns to look at Eggsy, his expression serious. “Eggsy, my heart, I think I have something to confess.”  
“Huh? What?” He knows it cannot be anything too terrible – they have been together long enough that there are hardly any secrets left and Harry has always been a bit of a drama queen – and yet Eggsy’s heart picks up its pace a little, like it is getting ready to panic.  
“You probably don’t remember, but, oh, I think around forty years ago, before we got together, there was an evening where we ordered Chinese”, Harry starts and he’s right, Eggsy has no idea what he is talking about. “Or rather, you did, because I still had something to finish for work, and I told you to pick something out for me. I think you got me chicken chow mein, which was lovely, but you also got me prawn crackers, and you were so proud of yourself because you thought of them, although I have no idea why. And, anyway, you told me you only got them for me, and I was already desperately in love with you, so I thanked you, and you smiled and… well. But the truth is that I absolutely and utterly despise them.”  
Harry looks at him like he has just confessed to a sin, cheeks flushed ever so slightly with the truth finally out, adds, “I hate everything about them, the consistency, the taste, how they stick to your gums to extend your suffering even further… And I thought I could put up with them for my entire life because I love you, but the truth is that I don’t. Even the thought of them makes me feel sick. So yes, I’d love to get Chinese, but please, keep those crackers away from me.”  
Finally Harry takes a deep breath, a sure sign that he has finished, and yet Eggsy cannot think of something to say, too dumbfounded by the story to even begin to form an answer.

“You mean, you spent forty years of your life munching away on something you hated, just because you didn’t want to hurt my feelings?”, he finally asks after several moments of silence, still incredulous, at least until Harry nods, looking a little bit guilty; he cannot help but laugh, the whole situation to absurd to take seriously. “You’re the most ridiculous man I have ever had the fortune of meeting, Harry.”  
“I’m taking that as a compliment, just so you know.”  
“As you should. So Chinese it is?”, Eggsy asks, scoots closer and lets Harry press a kiss to his temple. “Without prawn crackers?”  
“Yes, please.”

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and they order Chinese, but when the delivery boy brings the food, there is a packet of prawn crackers in the bag anyway, along with a note from Mei, the owner of the restaurant, telling them that they forgot about their crackers, but that she, just like always, had them covered.  
It takes at least five minutes until Eggsy has stopped laughing.

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and brings Harry his share of brightly coloured pills before they sit down to have dinner, swallows his own six tablets down as well.

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, and like almost every evening, they end up on the sofa with the TV playing, tired and satisfied, drifting closer to one another until they are cuddled together, Eggsy’s legs spread out across Harry’s lap, his hand in his husband’s soft hair.  
“Y’know”, he mutters, already a little sleepily, lets his lips move across the skin of Harry’s cheek. “I was thinking about our anniversary. It’s still a few months, I know, so it’s a bit early to plan, but I thought maybe we could go to Granada again? Or Spain, in general. I’d love to see that again.”  
Harry is quiet for a few moments, stroking soft fingers over Eggsy’s thighs, then he asks gently, “I thought you only wanted to do that every five years? Go where he had our honeymoon?”  
Although Eggsy has, of course, expected the question, he can’t answer it immediately, takes a few seconds, because the reason is one he’d rather not know himself. “I know, it’s just…”  
_We won’t live forever_ , is what he doesn’t say, _you won’t live forever_ , but he doesn’t have to, Harry understands anyway, nods.  
“That sounds lovely, my heart. We can book the flight tomorrow, if you want to? See if the hotel we stayed in last time is still in business, maybe we can even get the same room again. Would you like that?”  
“Yeah”, Eggsy breathes out, feeling relieved although there is no reason for it, snuggles closer and wonders just why it feels so important to be close to Harry today. Wonders if Harry has noticed it too. “I’d love that. I love you.”  
“I love you too, my heart.”

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and tells Harry he loves him again before they go to sleep, just like he always does, knowing that every morning, every night could be their last. He has been a spy, a husband for too long to still believe a miracle might happen; a miracle: both of them die at the same time, sleeping, unconscious, at each other's side.

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, and they fall asleep with their fingers intertwined, Harry’s breath soft and warm against Eggsy’s cheek.

 

Eggsy is sixty-five and wakes up too early again, the sun just so peeking through the cracks of the curtains. Next to him, Harry is lying turned on his side, and Eggsy smiles at him softly, his eyes still half-lidded and his brain slow with the remainders of sleep, taking several moments, if not longer, to realise that Harry is in the exact same position he was last night, that he is still holding Eggsy’s hand, something he never does – Harry tosses and turns at night, every night, except for this one.  
And it takes a little longer still, but Eggsy has seen death often enough that he recognises it even without wanting to, the missing warmth of Harry’s fingers, the stillness of his chest, the lack of breath against Eggsy’s skin.

There is a moment in which time doesn’t seem to stand still, it seems to end, fall away, and Eggsy can neither think nor move, only look at his husband’s face and desperately search for a sign, any sign. He finds none, and yet recognition does not mean acceptance, doesn’t stop Eggsy from reaching out and shaking Harry gently to wake him up, careful not to disentangle their fingers – he might not be able to make them fit together again.

"Babe?", he calls out softly when his husband won’t move; he doesn’t expect an answer and yet the silence makes his heart break into pieces he knows he won’t ever be able to put back together. “Harry, love, wake up, please.”  
There’s no reply still, no blinking eyes and slow smiles spreading across the lips Eggsy has kissed at least a million times, and he knows it, he does, and yet leans in, presses his lips to Harry’s cheek, half-hoping to find the skin warm, to find Harry breathing. He doesn’t.  
The tears come more quickly than Eggsy ever thought they would, make his sight blur and Harry disintegrates into a mess of fading colours, and it’s that, this small detail, which makes it real. Because it’s all Harry is now, fading, ripped away from Eggsy’s grasp, and he cannot take it, presses closer and closer until their chests are pressed together.

There’s no heartbeat, and Eggsy screams against Harry’s shoulder, squeezes his husband’s fingers so hard he knows he would have caused Harry pain if he was still alive, and like every other thought, it is unbearable; he raises their hands to his lips and kisses an imaginary pain away, shatters every piece of his heart into even smaller fragments.  
Through the tears, his eyes catch on the soft gleam of metal as he drags his lips across the cool skin of Harry’s knuckles and there are no miracles, but there's a ring around Eggsy’s finger, silver and gold, the small letters written on the inside promising _22.02.2015 until forever_ and now, it’s only Eggsy who can make forever last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And although I never thought I'd write this (not after almost a year of this story!), it's a wrap, and I am a little less excited about it than I thought I'd be, and a lot sadder than I thought possible.   
> I've never written anything like this, and I've learnt so much, have grown to love these characters to the point where letting them go is impossibly hard, and yet I'm so glad that I managed to give them the end I think they deserved. Not always perfect, not always what they would've wanted, never a miracle, and yet, hopefully good enough.  
> If there is anything you'd still like to know, about Harry and Eggsy or anyone else, please ask, I've got more headcanons about them than I think I'll ever be able to write down. 
> 
> Thank you, all of you, who stuck with me in this year, through Eggsy's and Harry's ups and downs, who left kudos and comments and kind words - you made this the most rewarding, lovely, beautiful experience I ever had writing a story.   
> I can't say how grateful I am.   
> Lots and lots of love from me ♥♥♥

**Author's Note:**

> In case you want to say hi, send me a prompt, or tell me something nice, you can find me on Tumblr here:  
> [X](http://www.coloursflyaway.tumblr.com)


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